


Price of Our Sins

by RoweenaJAugustine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF, Arranged Marriage, Drama, F/M, Gen, Imaginary friend., Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Loss of Innocence, Loss of Parent(s), Loss of Virginity, Miscarriage, Motherhood, Season 1, Slow To Update, Teenage Parents, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, Unhappy marriage, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-23 13:07:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 193,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7464498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoweenaJAugustine/pseuds/RoweenaJAugustine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sylvia Baratheon, daughter of Robert and Cersei, is sent north at 11 to be ward of Lady Catelyn Stark, and to get to know her betrothed, Robb Stark. Life is happy, but when war rips through the land, and her family's sins come to light, can the couple whether the storm? Or will past wrongs, lies and deceit ruin them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue I

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. This is my first story posted on this site. I also have it posted on FF.net.  
> I'm using show!Cersei 95% of the way here, so in this story, she had a legitimate male heir with Robert, and at the start of their marriage, she thought they could be happy together.

When she was just a girl  
She expected the world  
But it flew away from her reach so  
She ran away in her sleep

-Paradise by Coldplay

Prologue I

When father told her she would marry Rhaegar Targaryen and that she would be Queen of all the Seven Kingdoms, Cersei half wanted to laugh and half wanted to weep. Being Queen...it was all she'd ever wanted—the idea of power made her dizzy; the title was sweet on her tongue and in her ears. But how everyone would bow to her and do as she said no matter her gender was sweeter still. But a Queen's place was with her King, and a King's place was in the King's Landing...without Jaime, her twin...her other half.

They'd never been apart; they'd shared a womb, a childhood, a life...but then she was taken away to Court at twelve and Jaime was left behind at the Rock. Cersei found herself reaching for someone that wasn't there, listening for a voice hundreds of leagues away, and lying awake at night wishing her twin was there beside her, in her, all around her, consuming her until she knew they were whole again. That had been ache she'd been able to handle, it was just her and Jaime after all, no husband or stupid cow of a wife to come between them. She'd known he ached and yearned for her, just as she did for him. When they were fifteen, when father had suggested Jaime marry that ugly fish Lysa Tully, it was Cersei who'd convinced him to join the Kingsguard, to be with her always, as they were meant to be. But that had failed when father interfered and took her back to Casterly Rock and left Jaime to guard the Mad King's sister-wife and son. 

Then Rhaegar stole Lyanna Stark, the she-wolf of Winterfell, and started a war that ended in his family's fall from power. Now Jaime would be part of Robert Baratheon's Kingsguard and she would sit beside him as his queen.

In the wake of the rebellion, Robert Baratheon, (the brave hero every girl in the Kingdoms wanted), had bought father's support when he promised to wed Cersei. Having Jaime so close in the Capitol would be a pain sweeter than blade's stab. Her sweet brother would want her, crave her, hate her husband for having her, but Robert would be her husband, not Jaime, and for once, she was content with that. She was happy with being queen and having a husband forged in steel. She'd always love her brother, much more than a sister should, but Robert was her future and she could not risk it if she continued on with Jaime.

Her stag was fierce and strong, and loved a woman so much he nearly burned all Seven Kingdoms for her. The thought made Cersei smile. He would love her like that, the Stark girl would fade away for him in time and soon he would see the beautiful golden lioness before him. Why wouldn't he? Everyone said Cersei was the most beautiful woman in the kingdoms, she knew the courtesies to say and how to use her mouth and hands and cunt (as perfected on Jaime, her sweet brother)...how could he not fall madly, deeply in love with her?

Robert stank of wine when he crawled on top of her the night they wed. It bothered her but she said nothing. He was her king, lean and handsome and she felt something for him him—not love, but it could be. He had won Seven Kingdoms with his strength and power and she was Queen. Robert Baratheon was her King and her sons would rule the kingdoms long after she was dead, her bones turned to dust, and people would forever sing her name: Queen Cersei, mother of the greatest king who ever lived.

He wouldn't always be so in his cups, she thought as he rutted on top of her, stabbing her with his cock so hard it hurt her. Come morning light she would find bruises across her alabaster skin, ugly and purple and she would be sore between the legs for days after. She could live with bruises and pain, just this once, for they would fade, but she would still be queen. Next time Robert would—

"Lyanna," he grunted into her ear as he began to tense up, "Lyanna, Lyanna!" Her thoughts halted. Robert didn't notice the change in his bride, did not care when tears threatened to spill from her emerald eyes. Cersei never cried in front of anyone but Jaime, not since she was a child and at that moment she hated Robert for humiliating her like this and causing her tears. She felt him spill inside her and wanted to push him off and beat him bloody for touching her while he thought of that rotted corpse. 'I'm alive you drunk! I'm alive!' she wanted to scream, but she resisted, clenching her jaw tight. 

Suddenly, Robert's body felt cold and dirty, like the carcass he loved so much, not at all warm and comforting. Not like Jaime's arms, she found herself thinking as Robert shuddered a final time before collapsing atop her, suffocating her while she could do nothing about it. It was his right as her husband after all.

When he finally pulled his crushing weight away from her, she turned away on her side, sore all over but nothing hurt as much as her heart. The next night she crawled into bed with Jaime like she'd done as children, numb and wanting—needing—to feel good, needing to know she was wanted, beautiful, desirable. It was weak, the need for assurance like a child. Cersei shouldn't need it, she was beautiful, regal, strong hearted and a Lannister. But then again a husband should want his wife, but Robert wanted the hollow shell of some northern girl.

She was dimly aware of the danger, but it added a bit of spice to their rushed thrusts. Cersei smiled when Jaime grunted 'Cersei' in pleasure as he spent his seed inside her. But her smile quickly fell from her lips and a feeling of emptiness engulfed her and not even her sweet golden brother's kisses could fill the void. Why couldn't her husband be like this? Why couldn't Robert kiss her like Jaime did, touch her, pleasure her, murmur promises of devotion to her as Jaime had ever since they were children? Lyanna Stark was dead, what could Robert possibly want or grain by lusting after a dead woman? For one mad moment, she wished Jaime was her husband.

For a little while it was silent between her and Robert; that name hadn't been so much as whispered since their wedding night. Robert still visited her bed, but most oft was drunk on sour Dornish swill. Foolishly, Cersei began to hope that Robert was growing some kind of warmth in his heart for her. It was still unpleasant when he took her, but at least he didn't shout that girl's name again.

Then whispers came that he had taken a mistress. It was not unusual, kings took mistresses all the time, but Robert was cruel enough and had enough audacity that he made no attempt to hide his whores, even in public. It hurt, very much so, not only her pride, but her well guarded heart as well. It infuriated her and saddened her which angered her all the more.

Robert first hit her when she confronted him about the kitchen wench he pulled into his lap at Jon Arryn's tourney, in front of hundreds of lords and ladies' eyes with Cersei by his side as he buried his face in the plump woman's tits. Later she stormed to his chambers, stalking past Barristan Selmy outside the door. Angry lioness she was, her fury scared the half naked girls from her husband's bed with only a fiery look from her emerald eyes. Only when Robert's whores were gone did she finally speak.

"How dare you!" she screeched at him later in his chambers. "Have you no shame?! No dignity! The lords laugh at me behind my back—!"

"Let them laugh." Her husband slurred, rising scantly clothed from his bed. He grabbed a horn and poured his wine. "You Lannister cunts are all the same: can't take any jest no matter how little; they laugh at you behind your back, you say?" he mocked. "Grow thicker skin, woman, words are nothing."

"Yes they are nothing; they call you king but all I see is a drunken whoremonger wearing a crown!" She spat. There were so many other insults she wanted to sink into him, make him hurt after months of humiliation, but at once, Robert's hand was raised and struck her across the face. He showed no remorse, and neither did she. Later she looked into a mirror and stared at the bruise, committing it to memory as it coloured and turned an ugly purple. A Lannister always pays her debts, she thought wrathfully.

When she went to her brother later in the night, he would draw his sword and march to the door, swearing to drive his sword through Robert's neck. Cersei was half tempted to let him, but quietened his sweet words with her mouth, hoping bringing Jaime pleasure with it would satisfy her wrath for Robert. If he does it again, she thought deliriously as Jaime worked his mouth and hand dexterously between her legs, I'll be the one to kill him, Jaime.

When her belly began to swell and Grand Maester Pycelle congratulated her, she let nothing betray what she felt. "Yes, it truly is a blessing from the Mother," was all she murmured, her voice calm and quiet as the old goat took his leave. "Girl," she called to one of her handmaidens. Quickly the creature scurried over to Cersei, averting her eyes in respect or fear. Cersei hoped both.

The queen eyed the girl up and down warily. If Robert hadn't bedded her, he would soon, she thought. Suddenly she wanted pasty faced chit out of her sight. "Fetch my husband to me." She very nearly sent for Jaime, but refrained. She'd only shared Jaime's bed that once since she'd married Robert, months and months ago and the other times they'd been together they'd only used their mouths and hands on each other. She didn't want Jaime's seed to take root, couldn't risk it. This was Robert's child.

Cersei touched the small curve of her belly. Her green eyes lit up once more in hope that had begun to die. This would be Robert's heir, a strong black haired boy...he would love her for the strong son she would give him. She wouldn't only be his queen, she'd be his wife, mother to his child. Finally, her marriage would have worth, some warmth for their beds.

But still, a part of her whispered it should have been Jaime's child. He had never humiliated her by parading around with his whores in public. He had never given her bruises, or raised his hand to her. He had never said another woman's name while he was inside her, and he had never crushed her heart. But, young as she was, Cersei hoped.

Robert didn't strike her again, rarely raised his voice, and was discrete with his whores, after she told him the news. She was never more hopeful than when he smiled after Maester Pycelle told her she was carrying twins. Everything was starting to fall as it should.

Nothing prepared her for the birthing bed: the blood, the pain, the people marching in and out with no regard for her dignity. She clawed the bedclothes with her nails as she pushed and panted, she screamed loud war cries every time a contraction hit her. She was a woman born, but she knew she was stronger than any of them; what man could possibly survive this pain? Not Robert, not her beautiful twin, not even her father. It hurt so terribly, she thought she might hate the children she birthed for causing her such pain, such indignity.

Relief like nothing she'd ever felt made her collapse back onto the pillows when they pulled the boy from her body, screaming and red. When they laid him on her chest Cersei stared at the snorting, whimpering infant in wonder. A little face, a little nose, little mouth, little ears, little eyes, ten tiny fingers, ten tiny toes, a small tuft of black hair dusting his small soft head...Cersei never thought it was possible to love something so much after only an instant—more than herself, even more than her twin.

She struggled when one of the midwives take him away. "Give him back!" she screeched, her voice raw and hoarse from the birth. But her struggles were stopped by the ripping pain that tore through her womb. The queen had been so enamoured with her first child, the little prince, she'd nearly forgotten she had another child to birth.

It was just as bloody, painful and messy as the first, only this time her work gave her a beautiful healthy baby girl with the same sweet, innocent features as her elder brother. Love, so strong and powerful it made her weep, bloomed in her heart, and she knew she would kill for her babies; she would burn the world to ash if it meant keeping them safe from harm.

Her children laid on her chest, Cersei felt complete for the first time without her brother at her side. Robert was out hunting and wouldn't be home for days, so it would be up to her to name them. As her children suckled from her breasts strongly, their little hands opening and closing against her chest, she cradled their heads and ran her thumbs across their soft hair. Maester Pycelle had gotten them confused, when he wrapped them up, calling her son the girl and her daughter the boy. Every lord who had come to see the little prince and princess couldn't tell them apart, but Cersei could.

Her son was a little bigger than her daughter; he liked looking around at the world when he lay in the cradle with his sister. He screamed loudly for her breast when he was hungry, and when she fed them, he seemed to like to push his sister away from her nipple. Her little prince was already demanding, already strong. A true lion, she thought. Her little princess was quieter but sweeter than her brother. She had a steady stare to her, her attention didn't dart about like her twin's, weather it was her brother or her mother she was looking at. She was weaker than her brother, a lot less wriggly, but that was alright; her strength would grow. Her son the lion, her daughter the little doe.

"Steffon," the young queen whispered, looking at the right twin latched on her breast, eyes closed, one tiny hand closed around his sister's fist. "Sylvia." She whispered, looking to the left twin, stroking her wispy hair with her thumb.

As she lay with her children, Cersei was finally able to say she was happy. Robert would love her for these two beauties; he would realize pinning over a corpse was a waste and see his queen.

She was sure of it.

\----------------------

But her joy died on her tongue only four months after the birth.

They were twins, just like her and Jaime. Two small little bundles lying next to each other so peacefully, and even in their sleep, they twisted around so they faced each other, little arms resting across the others. When they woke, they didn't cry for their mother straight away. They had each other and would coo and babble to each other intently, grabbing at one another's clothes, biting each other's fingers. When one was away from the other they both cried and looked for their twin. When one baby awoke, the other was quick to follow. When one cried for Cersei's breast, the other cried as well. When one child was sleepy, the other either fell asleep with them, or was perfectly alright to lie beside their sleeping twin, wriggling and cooing contently. Their bond was beautiful; a twin herself, Cersei knew how strong they were, stronger than any marriage, any friendship...they shared a soul, two halves of the same whole.

Cersei had never felt happier than when they set one child and then the other down across her chest, screaming and red and wrinkled they were, and if they weren't hers, she might have thought them ugly...but they were hers...they were hers! Hers and Roberts. They had the finest black wisps at the crown of their soft heads, small little fingers and toes, the softest and warmest of skin, Cersei could spend whole hours just watching them and never grow bored.

And Robert began coming to her apartments more often now, and this filled her heart with joy. With the birth of their children, his son the future king and this little beauty a princess, it finally seemed as though her hopes that Robert Baratheon would love her were finally coming to life. He would come and watch them in their cradle, eyes filled with wonder, hold them both in his arms, laughing as they wriggled around and grabbed at his tunic. He smiled when they grabbed his hands and chewed on his fingers with their toothless mouths. Her heart warmed at seeing him smile with their children. Little did she realize Robert had bastard children he had the same interest in before Sylvia and Steffon, and that fascination had faded, as it always did with Robert.

Then, one of her little doves began to stop feeding from her breast. Her son, named in honor of Robert's father, grew pale, fever burning his delicate little skin, and he stopped feeding, no matter how she cried and begged. Cersei felt helpless, a feeling she had never felt before. Her son began to grow skinnier and skinnier, his skin like fire against hers.

Terror, mad and wild gripped her as her little love withered in her arms. Sylvia, laid in the cradle, screaming for attention as her mother held her twin. The queen refused to let anyone touch her healthy baby, paranoid that if anyone were to touch her, they'd give her the same fever that was taking her son. It was only when Robert stormed into the tumultuous chamber and ordered the wet-nurse to tend to the squalling, hungry, and soiled infant, that Sylvia calmed down some. Cersei glared at Robert through her reddened, watery eyes but was unable to argue as Maester Pycelle looked over her unusually still son.

For days Cersei held her son close, (her arms cramped but she didn't care), hoping, praying, every day and every night for the gods to give her children back to her. If one twin died, the next would surely follow. The gods would not be so cruel as to keep one half alive while taking the other...it'd be like taking an arm and leg.

Steffon fought, he held on days and days longer than the Maesters said he would. Cersei was so frightened she could not do anything but hold her baby and watch in anguish as the fever slowly took him.

Robert, for once in their marriage, stayed by her side as his boy languished, more for his children than his wife, but he stayed. Jaime guarded outside the chamber when all he wanted was to storm in the room and take Cersei in his arms and make all the pain go away. Cersei didn't care who was by her side at the moment, all she wanted was her boy to wriggle like he used to, scream for milk, push his sister. She wanted him back.

Her baby's life left her arms as she dosed against the top of the bed. Her boy lay in her arms, her daughter slept in her cradle and Robert had left hours before to do whatever depraved act he wanted. Her eye lids wouldn't stay open no matter how hard she tried. She was so exhausted she didn't realize Steffon was gone until the morning came.

The early waking hours of that day was a blur to Cersei. She remembered waking up, looking down, and thinking—hoping, praying—she was still dreaming. Her baby was pale, still, gone...and a part of her died the moment she realized it. Her face crumbled, her heart crushed inside her, a strangled sob tore from her throat as she threw her head back in pure agony. She screamed louder than she'd ever screamed before, louder than when her children were birthed, louder than when the Maesters told her that her son would not survive.

It would later be said her scream of grief was heard throughout the castle, they would say Robert, Jaime, Pycelle and many others rushed into the room as Cersei clutched her son sobbing as Sylvia screamed with her from her cradle. She screamed and battled as they took the dead child from her arms, clawed at the arms holding her back as she tried to grab her lost baby back again. Robert beat his hands bloody against the stone walls and then grabbed her when she leapt at one of the Silent Sisters who was taking the body to be prepared.

She remembered that Robert held her as she cried, as she fought and cried "please" over and over again. She later thinks it was because he was hurting as well; he had lost his child too. He didn't love her, and she didn't love him, but they had loved their son. She would think that this was the thing that killed her marriage. The loss of their boy took something from both of them because it was their child together; it was what had bound them together in that marriage. The septon may have joined them together by the gods, but their twins had sealed it.

Now...one was gone, and part of them both of them had died with him. The blame would come later; the hatred and bitterness would grow and fester as they sought comfort out elsewhere, Robert with his wine and whores, Cersei with her brother. But for now, all they were were two people who had lost their child, each grieving for the loss.

Cersei was not able to look at her remaining baby for days and days after Steffon died. At first, she felt thankful and numb, thankful that she had her healthy daughter left, but that was all. Then she ordered the wet-nurse to leave for the night to see to Sylvia by herself. It would be odd, she knew and most likely painful. Cersei had never had Sylvia without Steffon, but now that's all she would ever have, just Sylvia, an eternal reminder of the child she's lost, a blessing and a curse.

It was cruel of the gods to leave Sylvia with her. One twin should not live without the other. She will be incomplete all her life, Cersei thought as she stared at the cradle from her bed, firelight flickering across the gossamer veils. She'll never feel truly happy without her brother; she will always have the pain of the loss in her soul, even if she doesn't realize what it's from. Cersei couldn't imagine living in a world where Jaime was not, it was too painful to think of. They came into this world together; they would not dare leave the world without the other.

Cersei stood from her bed and walked to the cradle, and looked down to the little black haired child she loved and grieved for. Sylvia was peaceful, but her legs kicked in her sleep, her face turned to her side. She always did that, it was what she and Steffon had done; they faced each other when they slept so when they awoke they knew they were safe. She would never feel safe when she awoke again.

Carefully reaching a hand out she pinched the blue blanket covering her daughter's restless legs, still too afraid to touch her baby. It's a mercy, something mad whispered in her ear. One twin cannot live without the other.

She did not realize she had lifted the blanket until she laid it over Sylvia's face. Cersei froze in horror at what she was doing, shame and fear and dread and pain—oh gods the pain—striking her chest. Her legs grew weak and she collapsed on her knees beside Sylvia's cradle. The emotions swelling in her were so powerful, so consuming she doubled over with its strength, her forehead coming to rest against the cold stone floor. She felt like she was going mad. The young queen was ready to scream and tears gathered in her eyes when she heard a strange sound she realized she had not heard in a long time: her baby's coo.

A sniffle left her and she took uneven breaths to keep from breaking into sobs, and Cersei slowly stood up as Sylvia's disoriented coo grew into a panicked whimper. Looking down into the cradle at the wriggling infant beneath the blanket, Cersei pulled the fabric away and looked at her baby, feeling so ashamed and heartbroken.

She loved her, so, so much. Carefully, fearing she'd drop her, Cersei lifted Sylvia into her arms and sniffled as the baby settled quietly against her mother's bosom. Sylvia loved her as well. But gods forgive her, Cersei couldn't look at her daughter without the pain coming back again, without thinking why did the gods take the boy and leave me with the girl? She hated herself for thinking such things when she loved Sylvia so much.

Tears dripped down Cersei's face as she sat back against the pillows on her bed. Sylvia nuzzled against the silk fabric of her shift, looking for milk and made a small whimpery sound. Mechanically, feeling strange that she could do it by herself now that one hand was free, Cersei pulled down her shift, exposing her breast. She cradled her daughter's head in one hand while she held her breast in the other. Instinctively, Sylvia opened her small, pouty mouth wide and began to feed.

Cersei smiled for the first time in weeks as she watched her baby feed, but it was a sad smile. This would be the last time she would feed her daughter herself. Her heart hurt too much, and she was afraid of herself, of what she may do if she was left alone with Sylvia again. Cersei could already feel bitterness and anger form in her heart where her son once occupied. That bitterness was too close to her daughter, and Cersei had to protect Sylvia from whatever animosity she would form towards her remaining child.

But Cersei wept as she held Sylvia, for everything that had happened, everything that would happen, all she'd lost and the one she will lose.

\---------------------

It wasn't long later that she caught Robert fucking one of her handmaidens against a wall close to her chambers. Anger and hurt struck her. How dare he?! Their son had died only two moons past and there he was making another child with some fat ugly whore? When she went to Jaime, she didn't need to use her words. The next morning, the handmaid's body washed up along the shore. That same night she and Jaime fucked for the first time in a year. And it was good.

For a long time afterwards, Cersei went nightly to her brother, mounting him and riding him like a stallion, wanting him to make her feel something other than pain and despair, other than the crushing grief and sadness she felt everyday looking at her remaining baby, Sylvia. She longed to have her daughter close to her, but she just couldn't...the pain was too raw yet.

She made Jaime finish on her thigh or belly because she wasn't ready to bring another baby into the world, it was too soon after she lost one. Jaime didn't care; he obeyed her wishes as he always did. Robert came to her bed drunker and drunker as the months rolled by, so delirious that he didn't remember if he finished in her or on her face or in her hands. He bellowed about needing heirs one night before he struck her and sent her sprawling to the floor.

"You have one," she said. "Sylvia."

"A girl cannot rule an entire kingdom!" Robert shouted drunkenly. Cersei knew this, but wasn't one of his children enough, even if she was a girl? Couldn't he raise her to run a kingdom (although she knew it was Jon Arryn, the Hand who managed the kingdom)? She wouldn't be able to fight in battle, but she could rule in the council room.

It was when Robert talked to his council about bringing Edric Storm to court and legitimizing him as his heir that Cersei's ambition reawakened in her heart. A bastard of Robert's would. Not. Rule! A Lannister bastard was worth a hundred thousand for every one of Robert's bastards.

Her children would still rule. Not Robert's. She'd rob him of that. That night she clutched Jaime's hips as he drew closer and closer to climax and smirked at his delighted face when she wrapped her legs around him to keep him from withdrawing.

Her belly grew once more, though not as large as it had before when she carried twins. Cersei felt nothing but satisfaction through her whole pregnancy that she had bested Robert. She felt no particular affection for the babe itself. Sylvia, now just over a year old, still had a part of her heart that had not frozen over. She was Robert's child however, black hair, blue eyes, none of his features, yet she looked like him. Cersei was coming to hate Robert, but yet...part of her still felt something for him, stupid as it was.

When Joffrey was born, the birthing bed was just as she remembered unfortunately, only this time Jaime was with her, holding her hand. With the twins he'd remained outside, angry she was birthing Robert's children. Jaime never cared for either child, but held her as she wept for them.

When they set the screaming infant in her arms warmth spread inside her for the first time in nearly a year and the painful love she felt for her daughter was now pushed back to make room for this lion cub in her arms. Her son screamed, as if knowing their words were Hear Me Roar. This was her future king, golden and beautiful, a Lannister through and through.

Her daughter, while she loved her—painful as it was—was a stag. Stags and lions do not mix, she realized as she thought of her husband. Lions devour stags, but now, a stag rules a lion. That must never ever be...when Joffrey was king he would be a lion and rule the all the beasts in the forests, all the flyers in the sky, all the creatures of the sea. Everyone will bow to the lion, as they always should have done.

Robert didn't care for the boy, not like he cared for Sylvia. He favoured the little dark haired child, saw her more often than Joffrey, gave her more toys, smiled at her...Joffrey got none of that, not that the boy seemed to care very much. Whenever Robert tired to hold the baby, Joff would screw his face up in disgust and let out a helpless scream of fury. Robert soon lost interest in the child that had no interest in him and focused more on the daughter that liked following him like a puppy.

And so Cersei's first daughter was pushed behind Joffrey, the golden sun outshining the pale moon. While Robert favored his black haired doe, Cersei favoured her blonde haired cub. Danger increased as Jaime got two more children on her, but Cersei had no care. Sylvia was Robert's child everyone knew it; Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella simply favoured their mother. But people began rumours that Sylvia was Robert's bastard from another woman.

This infuriated Cersei. She may not know her daughter well but she loved her as much as she loved Jaime's children. The fact that Sylvia's father was a drunken bastard who spent his time humiliating and hurting his wife, spoiled a bit of that love, however. Whatever she exactly felt for her eldest was a mystery: she did not hate her entirely, nor did she love her as much as she once did, she pitied her and yet feared her for what her existence may bring. She loved Sylvia enough to fight when Robert suggested she marry a Martell or one of those Tyrell snakes. She laughed in his face when he even said the name Frey and called him a bastard when he suggested a Greyjoy. Every protest gave her bruises, but she did not care. Her daughter would not suffer as she did.

Despite the love she had for her eldest, Cersei kept a careful distance, never remaining long enough to get hurt. Lions and stags do not mix and damn it, it still hurt looking at the girl and remembering the small, black haired boy she'd come into the world with.


	2. Prologue II

Prologue II

Life goes on, it gets so heavy  
The wheel breaks the butterfly  
Every tear a waterfall  
In the night the stormy night she'll close her eyes  
In the night the stormy night away she'd fly

As a young child, Sylvia filled her loneliness by carrying out long conversations with her invisible friend, Stuffy. She couldn't remember a time when she hadn't been with him. He was funny, they'd play hide and seek all throughout the castle; he was a great hider, she'd never be able to find him until she had to leave for lessons, then he'd jump out boast he was the greatest hider to ever wander the castle halls.

Sylvia liked playing with Stuffy, he was her best friend. When her mother was away and Septa Bryda was snoring in her chair, Stuffy always had a new game to play, like Catch the Dragon, or One, Two, Three, Knock on Wood or Ten Little Knights. Sometimes he'd let her win, sometimes he just smirked while she pouted at his victory.

She talked to him at night, turned over on her side, small hand scratching at the cool satin sheets, whispering into the dark to her friend.

"Mother says I'm to have a new brother or sister," she whispered into the room, dark but for the candles flickering by her bed, threatening, always threatening, to gutter out. Sylvia paused as Stuffy answered. "I know I hope this one isn't like stupid Joffy." Joffrey, her younger brother, was a terrible playmate. He cried when he didn't get his way, when she or Stuffy bested him at games or teased him or said no to him. When she talked to Stuffy, Joffy laughed at her or called her a stupid girl or even ordered his hound, Sandor Clegane, to knock some sense into his halfwit sister. The Hound never did, she was his princess after all, and her sworn shield, Ser Fredrik Ravenback, would have fought back if the large monstrous man raised a hand to her.

Joffrey had a cruel streak too. He liked to kick her little dog, Spots—(Sylvia had wanted to name him Meraxes, after Rhaenys Targaryen's dragon, but father bellowed out curses to her and would have hit her for even mentioning the Targaryen name, had her mother not stopped him and taken the hit for her). Joffery's emerald eyes gleamed when he threw his tantrums, as if enjoying the shocked look on her face, enjoying her tears when he called her such cruel, dirty names no matter how many times she ordered him to stop. He threw her dolls against the walls, insulted Stuffy and hit her with his small, but hurtful, fists and there was nothing Ser Fredrik could do about that.

Once, when Joffy, Sylvia and Stuffy were having a pretend royal tea party with iced honey milk, savoury meat pie with flaky crust, lemon cakes and sweet fruit tarts between them, Joffy tried to take the lemon cake she set before Stuffy.

"No, Joffy! You can't eat that! That's Stuffy's!" she yelled at her small brother. His golden curls brushed against his shoulders, his chubby little hands clutched the lemon cake tightly, and the lovely green eyes that mirrored their mother's, narrowed in defiance and outrage. Joffy couldn't see it, but Stuffy was glaring at her little brother as well.

"You're so stupid! You and your pretend friend can't tell me what to do! I'm going to be king and when I'm king I'll cut off your toes for even mentioning it!" The five year old hissed out. They glared at one another for a moment when Sylvia reached over the table, quick as a snake, and tried to grab the cake from Joffrey, her long black hair falling over her shoulder and dipping into the pitcher of sticky honey milk. "Let go! Let go! Let GO!" the golden haired child screeched. His onyx haired sister didn't listen and they continued to fight over the lemon cake. Finally, Joffrey's smaller fingers couldn't hold on any longer and let go, so abruptly that Sylvia lost her footing and fell back.

Landing painfully on her back, the cake flying out of her hand and splattering all over the stone floors, Sylvia was dazed a moment when Joffrey yelled again.

"I'm telling mother!" as was his custom, Joffrey ran out of the apartment in search of her. Sylvia bit her lip, afraid what this would bring. Mother always took Joffy's side on things like this. From the cradle, she'd taught the boy he was to be a king, and kings can make or break any law they wish, the truth was what the king said it was and that he lies in a bed with his enemies, snuffing them out when they grow too bold. Watching father do as he pleased with no care of what anyone else thought or what embarrassment he may inflict upon his wife, agreed with mother's lessons. It was only when Joffrey went too far with his taunts—calling her halfwit in front of hundreds of eyes, or hitting her, or bringing up Stuffy in the middle of Court—that Cersei ever stopped it, taking Sylvia away from her nasty brother as if she was the one being insolent and later telling Joffrey that even kings should not shame their family in public, for it was a shame to him as well.

Mother would leave Joffrey with a septa after those soft words, and take her away to have a lemon cake or walk outside in the gardens under the warm sun or brush and braid her hair; her hands, always gentle, made Sylvia forget being upset at Joffrey. That was Sylvia's favourite time with her mother, the times when it was just the two of them: no Joffrey, no Uncle Jaime, no father...just the two of them. Those quiet, happy times with her mother felt too few, because Joffrey always had more command over her attentions than her and being queen always summoned Cersei away for whatever reason.

Mother always seemed to be more like to believe Joffrey than her, the story of what truly happened would be twisted and stretched into a pale image of what had happened. Sylvia didn't understand; because Joffy would be king one day, he was always right? Because he was a boy? Because he was younger? Why was mother always siding with him, always spending more time with him, always talking to him with sweet praise? But, being young and innocent as she was, and because she did not know she had lost her twin in the cradle, Sylvia did not see that when Cersei looked at her children, she saw Joffrey and thought of Jaime, and when she looked at Sylvia she thought of the boy she'd lost. Because this is how it had always been, Sylvia was usually not bothered by it for very long; Stuffy always cheered her spirits and made her smile, and there was her Septa Bryda who would tell her stories about animals that wanted to be knight or gentle queens who fell in love with brave kings from far off exotic places.

"No Stuffy, we can't." Sylvia admonished, giggling when he suggested they take the new baby and put it in a basket and lease it into Blackwater Bay for fishers or mermaids to keep, if it turned out like Joffy. "I don't know...maybe we can put Joffy in a basket and put him out to sea and keep the new baby and teach it to be good and how to skip stones and how to sneak past the guards and find the skulls." She paused. "No dummy, all the dragons are gone, father always says so." Her conversation with her invisible friend continued for another hour before Sylvia's eyelids began to fall. "I wish you were my brother," the little princess whispered into the darkness before falling asleep, dreaming of a happier place that she would forget once she awoke.

Her mother was huge with child when Joffrey...hurt the kitchen cat. She'd been walking through the halls with Ser Fredrik, on her way back from her high harp lessons, when she heard her mother screaming.

"Joffrey! Oh, oh my poor, poor son, my poor little prince," she heard Cersei cry, her voice laced with nothing but fear and sadness for finding Joffy in whatever state he was in. Sylvia and Ser Fredrik froze where they stood, Sylvia's crystal blue eyes widening in fear. What had happened to Joffy? Was he alright? Was her mother alright? Her thoughts raced and Ser Fredrik took her hand and rushed her past the door where she'd heard her mother.

"Best come along, princess." He advised as he tugged her hand away.

"No, I want to hear." She hissed, pulling her hand from her calloused one. A loud slapping sound echoed through the halls and the knight swore under his breath.

"You bastard! How dare you touch my son! I'll gut you from—!"

"You'll not want to hear this," Ser Ravenback said gravely, knowing, at least vaguely, that whatever harm had been done to the prince, Robert Baratheon most like had a hand in it. No one else would dare touch the boy, fearing his mother's untameable wrath. He knew mothers had a tendency to go a little mad where their children were concerned, but he had no doubt Cersei Lannister would kill for her children. She'd get away with it too. Ser Ravenback looked back down at his young charge, knowing the small, strange child should not hear the violence to come between her parents.

"Yes!" The girl screamed insistently, stomping her small foot beneath her yellow little lady's gown.

"No, come along." He grunted, pulling once again on her little arm. Sylvia glared at him beneath her dark lashes, as if her scathing look could sway the seasoned warrior. Suddenly, he hauled her up in his arms and walked away down the corridor, hoping that his footsteps would ensure the child did not hear the shouts behind them.

Unfortunately, the maids see the dark bruise under young Joffrey's eye and see that his two front baby teeth are gone, and whisper to one another. The kitchen hands see the cat is missing and then find its gutted body, and whisper to the maids. The maester who attended the boy and gave him milk of the poppy to help the pain, hears Cersei speaking angrily to her twin brother in the next room. She says Joffrey was only curious and doesn't know why Robert was so horrified since he brings back gutted carcasses whenever he goes hunting. The maester whispers to the whore that visits him later in the night, and the whore whispers to the cook who pays for her the next night and soon the truth of the shouts from that day reach Sylvia.

Ser Ravenback knows he failed when the girl asks him to take Spots, her little mutt away, a scared look in her eye. He knows he failed when she didn't speak to Joffrey for days and barely met his eye for weeks after he killed and eviscerated the cat, not out of fear mind you, but too disturbed to go back to the way things once were between them. He knows he failed when she doesn't call her brother 'Joffy' ever again.

\-------------------

When Myrcella was born, talk of betrothals once again arose at the Small Council's table.

Sylvia was growing into a pretty little lady, and in a few years time she'd be ripe for marriage. The Martell's would be a wise choice, seal their loyalty with a marriage bed and bloody sheets. But the idea of sending his favorite to Dorne, to be ward of the House that hated them above everything evil and cruel in the world, was not an idea that sat easy with Robert. He barely saw the girl and his interest in her had waned as the years passed, but he did still care a good deal for her and didn't want her to suffer in whatever marriage he arranged.

The Tyrell's were too ambitious and Robert found delight in destroying their hopes that their house would ever marry into the crown. He laughed at their anger, delighted as they stewed in their rage, unable to protest the king's choice.

Mayhaps Jon Arryn's son when it's birthed from the Tully girl's belly? Robert loved Jon Arryn more than his own dead father, and a marriage between his daughter and his potential son would bind their houses together. His daughter would be Lady of the Eyrie one day, mistress of an impenetrable castle, married into one of the most honourable houses in the realm. But it was common knowledge the younger Tully girl had a weak womb, miscarriages and stillbirths were all she had begotten Jon Arryn and no one knew if this child would make it to term. Sylvia couldn't be kept waiting for a son that may take years to birth.

Cersei wanted a Lannister for their eldest, but Robert refused with an angry growl; he surrounded by too many fair haired Lannister shits already. He hated the entire emerald eyed lot of them and their arrogance was not something he'd condemn Sylvia to; her mother, uncle, cousins and grandfather were enough. Perhaps the girl Cersei birthed the month before, but not Sylvia... not his daughter. Greyjoy had once been an option, but after that bloody spat which had left all the salty runts of Balon Greyjoy dead but for the youngest, Robert and Cersei finally agreed that a marriage between Sylvia and Theon would be mad.

Any other house would not match up to Sylvia's status; all the other houses were too small, too poor and too greedy for a princess.

And then there was the north and that tasted sweet as wine on Robert's tongue. Immediately, he thought of Ned and his boy—Robb they named him, in honour of Robert—was only about a year older than his daughter. A smile came to Robert's lips as he took another long swig from his cup. Ned was the best man he knew, honourable, steadfast, knew exactly what he was and had no illusions. If his son was anything like Ned, Sylvia would be well cared for and never misused. He could see Sylvia happy in this match, sweet child she was, not like her mother or her father.

Binding a Stark to a Baratheon...it was always meant to be, until Lyanna was stolen from him. Robert looked down at his cup and felt the burn—still so fresh after six, nearly seven years—begin to flame up inside him. Sylvia and this Robb Stark would not fail where he had. Robert didn't care if it was selfish ambition or if Cersei or his daughter protested. Stark and Baratheon would still be bound by blood.

The next morning Jon Arryn walked down one of the red stone castle halls, talking with wise old Maester Pycelle about this match Robert had decided upon, the match Ned Stark didn't even know about and therefore may refuse.

"I doubt the princess will suit the north," said Jon Arryn. "It's too cold, too harsh for a soft hearted southern princess." It was common knowledge about the castle that Sylvia talked to herself, this fictitious apparition she called by name and played with and talked to. Her wits worried Jon Arryn. He had never known a child to talk at nothing and act as though her playmate was real. Perhaps it was some deformity of the mind developed before birth? Perhaps her brother had been the sane one. He feared the Starks would see Sylvia as a lame horse they'd been sold and take it as an insult. He worried for what this child may endure in the harsh, cold lands of the north, from children that did not know her, and did not know how kind and sweet she could be.

Pycelle nodded his fuzzy head. "Oh," he murmured, his voice tired as it always was. "Yes, yes, my Lord. But I think with the change, the girl may finally relinquish this apparition of hers and play with real children."

"Yes, there are few children within the castle walls for the princess to play with," Jon Arryn agreed. Sylvia had Joffrey, but she hated the boy with his bullying and for the most part he got away with the way he treated his sister as Robert would be too drunk and Cersei favoured her son above her other children. Robb Stark was a child too—Ned's son—but still a boy, still learning, still foolish. If Sylvia was to travel north and mention that silly apparition to him, Jon knew nothing good would become of it. "But a few playmates are more acceptable than none."

"Mmm. My lord, if I may inquire, is his highness aware of his daughter's...wild imagination?" Pycelle asked.

"Even if Robert knew how far it went, he wouldn't care. He wants a Stark and a Baratheon married, and he will get it, with either these two children or children born in the future." Jon replied regretfully. If Robert listened to him on this, he would wait a few years, break the princess of her odd imaginings and then proposition a marriage between her and Robb Stark. But tell Robert Baratheon he couldn't, shouldn't or mustn't, he would do it to spite you. Robert was dead-set on this betrothal, no matter what Ned said.

As the two older men walked, a handmaiden passed them by, one of Cersei's spies. By the afternoon, the queen had gotten hold of this new information and was furious at the idea they would send her eldest child away to some stranger in a cold waste of land.

"I thought you hated the girl." Jaime said snidely from Cersei's bed. He watched his beloved sister pace; one hand rested on the pommel of his sword, as he wondered why she worried so much over Robert's child. He knew she hated every one of Robert's bastards and Robert himself most of all, so why did she worry so much over her inky haired daughter? Jaime didn't much care for his children, his heart only truly belonged to Cersei, and it burned him to know that Robert's daughter—a part of Robert—had a portion of her heart that was inaccessible to him. Jaime felt that piece of Cersei was stolen from him, by the daughter of a drunken fool.

Many times he tired to remind himself she was half Cersei as well, he could see it in the child's fine features, but everything about the little girl irritated him for reasons he knew were foolish. He didn't want to hate her, for Cersei's sake, but he also wished she would hate the girl as well, to know the hurt she cut him with to have and love a child of Robert Baratheon's.

"You know I don't." The queen snapped, never stopping her pacing. "If I hated her, she would have died beside her brother." Cersei pushed away the stab of pain thinking of Steffon gave her, focusing more on her anger, at Robert for selling Sylvia like a whore, and at Jaime for saying nothing useful or comforting to her. Cersei stopped and turned to her brother, hating how much she wanted him even now as he simply sat at the end of her bed, beautiful and golden. "You, best of all, know I do not hate Sylvia anymore than I hate Joffrey or Myrcella."

"But you do not care for her enough to reign in Joffrey when he makes her cry." He saw Cersei flinch at that and bit his tongue in regret as she turned away from him. He had half a mind to take her into his arms and kiss her and touch her until she stopped worrying over the onyx haired child.

"Joff will be king," Jaime said as he stood. "He is ours, he looks like us. Sylvia is Robert's, she looks like him." He continued softly, slowly walking behind her Jaime took hold of her soft hips. "People will talk, they'll whisper, wonder why Sylvia and Robert's bastards look exactly like him and why Joffrey and Myrcella have golden hair and emeralds for eyes." He whispered into her ear. "Send the girl north, the whispers will quieten with no one to compare Joffrey and Myrcella to." Cersei tensed as Jaime began to bunch up her dress and pull upwards, but remained frozen as he whispered his silky words into her ear. "Our children will be safer when she is gone and married." At that, Cersei wretched away from Jaime, glaring at him fiercely.

"You think I care what people whisper?" she spat. "You think I believe you care what they say? No one would dare speak such things openly; Joffrey and Myrcella are as much Baratheon as Sylvia."

Jaime bristled. "Well in that case you should marry Sylvia and Myrcella both off as quickly as you can. If they're as much like Robert as you claim, they'll have their legs spread open with half a hundred men between them by the time they're twelve with as many bastards in their bellies."

Cersei scowled at her twin for a second, and then she raised her hand and struck him across the face as hard as she could. Jaime only smirked, her slap having no affect on him.

"Why did I even call you here?" she hissed at him.

"Because, my sweet sister, you want me to do something to stop Robert from selling your daughter to Eddard Stark."

"And now I see how useless that was." Cersei snapped before storming from the room, her silk skirts swaying behind her.

Within the month, ravens had been sent to Ned all the way in the north, and before any had been received back yet, Robert had announced to the entire Court that Sylvia Baratheon and Robb Stark would be wed the year after she first began to bleed.

\------------------------------

Four and a half years later...

Sylvia slouched in her chair as Bryda brushed her hair, not paying attention to the old woman's humming. When she was six, when father told her she'd be fostered at eleven by Ned Stark, his best friend, four years seemed a lifetime to her. Now at eleven, it seemed all too soon.

Mother was with child again, and it seemed that she wouldn't meet her brother or sister for a few years. The thought made her very sad. Despite her and Stuffy's fears, Myrcella grew into a sweet, kind girl, incapable of guile or the cruelty that came to Joffrey so easily. Sylvia loved to play with her sister, loved her pretty blonde hair and sweet trusting smile. From the moment she saw the little thing, sleeping soundly in her cradle, mother watching carefully from her bed, tired looking and in her nightclothes, Sylvia decided she couldn't let Joffrey hurt her like he had the cat. Myrcella was so small and innocent, and Sylvia loved her from that day, and would until her last.

She worried, now for her sister, and the new baby coming, what Joffrey may do. She didn't trust her brother. At times he was like a snake: calm, luring you in under a false notion of gentleness. Other times he was as clumsy as a lion: moving too quickly, acting too brashly, too harshly, shocking you at the suddenness of his pounce. He had grown quite a bit, the malice of his childhood nature had calmed a bit, mother had taught him a king must be patient, save your strength, wait to strike at the proper time—still, whenever he looked at things, whenever he looked at her, she could see that same disturbing gleam in his eye.

Septa Bryda began to split her hair into three sections, preparing to braid her hair like she had done for years, but Sylvia paid her favorite septa no mind. Mother had many loyal knights around her, as did Joffrey, as did Myrcella. And Joffrey had become tamer with his taunts to Sylvia and never jeered at Myrcella as badly as he did with Sylvia. Although she tried to assure herself Myrcella's sweet nature would remain untainted by Joffrey's poison, she still feared. She could never tell her mother of her fears, to insult Joffrey was to insult Cersei.

"Don't worry, child. You'll carry your family with you in your heart when you go." Septa Bryda murmured gently as she braided the princess' soft hair. Truly, Septa Bryda was more than a governess to Sylvia, she loved her. For nearly every time Joffrey had made her weep, septa Bryda had been the one to wipe away her tears, she became the one she went to whenever something exciting happened in her young life, and septa Bryda never turned her away when she was too busy. She would miss her terribly when she left.

Despite the love she felt for her septa, Sylvia felt like being rude. "Except I won't, will I?" Sylvia grumbled back shortly. "They'll be here and I'll be all the way up north, alone and cold. Mother says it's just a cold waste there."

Septa Bryda chuckled. "Oh, my little dear, you're mother is just trying to frighten any joy out of you for going, because she doesn't want you to go."

"That doesn't make sense!" The child bit back.

"Motherhood never does." It was quiet a moment, but for the soft cries of the gulls outside in the harbour. "At least you can bring your 'friend' with you." The septa offered carefully.

Sylvia looked down. Stuffy was still her greatest friend, although as she got older and she became more aware of the views of people, she talked to Stuffy less and less. Jon Arryn said children weren't supposed to have imaginary playmates, to stop pretending and to never mention it in front of the Starks. She hated the old man then, with his bushy white eyebrows and rank breath. He sounded just like Joffrey, always telling her normal people aren't daft enough to have a friend like Stuffy. But what was wrong with Stuffy? She liked him and that's all there was to it!

Yet later at a feast, she remained quiet, looking down at the platter of food before her and nowhere else. For the first time she was aware of the eyes on her and wondered what they saw. A mad little girl? A lonely princess? Someone to pity, someone to mock in secret? Afterward, in their private apartments with her mother, Sylvia asked for the first time if Cersei thought she was mad.

Cersei knew of the invisible friend her daughter played with, but knew it to be a silly childhood game that called for no real worry. She'd forget in time, she thought, she's just a child after all. This question Sylvia posed to her mother was one long awaited. When Sylvia finally began to notice that other children had flesh and blood companions, she'd begin to let go of this apparition of hers. Myrcella would be a suitable companion.

"My love, you are a Lannister and a princess," said Cersei. Even though Cersei knew full well her daughter was a Baratheon, she resented admitting it. "You are too good for imaginary friends. There are many other things for you to play with, including your sister."

"But I already do—"

"Hush! I will not have you be made a mockery of; we are lions and we do not concern ourselves with the opinions of sheep, but neither will we endure their ridicule." Sylvia looked down, biting her lip. Her mother sighed and tipped her child's head up and gave her a soft, tight smile. "No my sweet, you are not mad, but do not hold onto this thing of yours forever. You'll be a woman soon, and women put away childish things." Sylvia nodded in understanding, and that night, ignored Stuffy when he tried to talk to her.

She had been eight then, and now she was eleven, being made ready to be shipped away in the crate that was a wheelhouse off north. She found as time went by, Stuffy's visits became fewer and fewer, but this made her sad. Sylvia wanted to play with him, talk to him like she used to, wake up and know he was there so they could keep each other safe from scary things that lived in the dark...but at the same time...she couldn't. She talked to him every now and then like she used to, more often now as the day for her departure grew closer, but it there was a divide between them now, a divide that didn't feel natural.

Suddenly, the door opened, making both the old septa and the young princess turn to look who had come.

Cersei stood in the wake of the doorway, she wore a green gown that complimented her emerald eyes, a gorgeous jewelled belt encircling just below her breasts, making her swelling stomach all the more noticeable. She eyed the septa cryptically. Cersei never cared for the old crone; her daughter was far too close for her liking. Cersei had always been a jealous woman; she did not share, and having her daughter attached to this old hag as she was stung her. She had half a mind to ask Jaime to be rid of her as he had Robert's whores, but Sylvia would ask questions and would most likely cry for her and that would be worse still.

"Leave us." Cersei ordered curtly. Curtsying as deeply as she could, septa Bryda left without another word or a second glance.

Cersei and Sylvia looked at one another a moment, Sylvia in her chair, drumming her little fingers on the wood of the arm rests, Cersei standing by the door, hands clasped in front of her. Cersei knew her daughter didn't want to leave, but it couldn't be helped, not now at least. For the past six months as Sylvia's departure grew closer as the days passed by, Cersei dreamed of killing Robert and ascending her son to the throne and having him make the arrangement void under his decree. Yet all the while, Jaime's words from long ago whispered in the back of her mind. Our children will be safer when she is gone and married.

The queen felt as if she was being torn two different ways, between her love for her golden children, and her love for her black haired daughter. She thought and thought until she began to see Jaime was right, even though she knew he only said what he did out of spite for the girl. Their children would be safer if their black haired sister was gone, when there was nothing to compare them to...it would hurt to lose her daughter to strangers, the other half of her sweet Steffon, the one bit of him—the one bit of Cersei's dead hopes and dreams—taken away from her. But losing Joffrey, Myrcella, this new child in her belly, Jaime, her power and then her head would destroy her in one crashing, painful blow and she would not let that happen. Even if it meant sacrificing one child to a marriage she did not want.

"Here," Cersei murmured, stepping behind Sylvia and taking over the task the septa had left half finished. Sylvia always had such pretty hair, she thought as she twisted and weaved the black ink of her daughter's long hair. Gently braiding her eldest's hair, Cersei let out a sad sigh. She loved her daughter, she knew that deep in her heart, but she had to let her go—not for any benefit of Sylvia's, but for Cersei's.

"I'm sending Ser Ravenback with you, north; he'll keep you safe where I cannot." The queen told her. Sylvia was happy at that; at least she would know one face. "Don't expect much from this boy," Cersei said without enthusiasm. She had vowed no daughter of hers would suffer the same fate she had, but her blasted sex made her weak in this world where men's cocks decided everything. "If you do, you'll be disappointed. If you love him, love him carefully. Men are like snakes, my sweet. You can love them for years, do everything you can to make them happy, but still...they can turn on you in an instant and I cannot protect you from that." She finished her work, bound the end of Sylvia's hair tightly with string, and turned her child's head to face her. "I do not say this to scare you, my love. But that is how the world is sometimes." Cersei said looking into her daughter's blue eyes, the eyes her black haired twin had shared. Cersei pulled away, as she always did when she remembered Steffon.

"Come," Sylvia jumped off the chair, walking with her head held high beside her fierce mother, hoping she looked braver than she felt.

"Will I visit?" Sylvia asked as they walked down the stairs to the front gates of the city where her wheelhouse, filled with her belongings, a septa and Ser Fredrik, were waiting. The child's voice betrayed her, breaking as her fears and sadness swelled like an ocean's wave inside her.

Cersei looked back at Sylvia, clenching her jaw when she saw her daughter's eyes well. "Don't cry. Tears are the weakness of your heart made bare. Bad people, wicked people, will use your weakness against you." Cersei truly didn't want to frighten the child, but she was leaving her and going to some strange place where there could be danger and malice every way she turned. Sylvia had to be ready for it; the time for childish naivety was coming to an end.

The girl sniffled, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her dress, hoping mother wouldn't object to that. "Yes, you will visit," Cersei said with a sigh as she began walking down the stairs. "Many high born girls flower when they're thirteen; when you flower, we will come north to see you be made a wife." She sneered as if the notion tasted foul in her mouth. Doubtfully, Cersei wondered if giving the girl up, letting her leave, would take the ghosts of her painful past with her, and finally let her get a peaceful nights sleep without awaking from too sweet dreams of her lost son, and the life she wished she had.

Sylvia said nothing, but silently counted the years until she was thirteen, as she and Cersei continued their way down the stone steps.

\---------------------

Princess Sylvia Baratheon looked through the pale yellow gossamer curtains as the wheelhouse slowly shook its way down the kingsroad. Her septa, a stern looking woman in a plain yellow dress, quietly sewed something across from her. Her guard, Ser Fredrik, road outside with a dozen others, enjoying the scenery outright while she watched through a veiled window. In a month's time she would be gone from the beautiful warmth of the south, and thrust into the desolate cold of the north. Her heart broke as she watched the Red Keep grow smaller and smaller behind them, feeling as though she left a part of herself behind.


	3. Prologue III

Prologue III

And so lying underneath those stormy skies  
She'd say, "oh, ohohohoh I know the sun must set to rise"  
This could be  
Para-para-paradise  
Para-para-paradise

Coldplay-Paradise

It was colder than she'd thought it would be...and greyer too. Where the Capitol had been vibrant and colourful, every shade of blue, pink, red, yellow and green that comes to imagination, the north was bleak, seeming to always be under a cold film.

Sylvia missed home terribly. She missed Myrcella, with her golden hair and shy gentle smile, missed the days when they'd play together, giving life to their dolls or having pretend luncheons where their dolls were the main guests. She missed her mother and father, even though mother preferred to coddle Joffrey and father loved his wine. She missed the warm red brick halls of the Red Keep, the sunshine of the south, the cool silk dresses she had exchanged for an ugly wool dress. She missed Stuffy, much more than she'd thought, the distance between them almost painful. She missed Bryda's warm arms and even missed having to play the harp until her finger tips blistered. She did not miss Joffrey, but knew it was ill not to. Sylvia thought maybe that was why the gods didn't send some fantastic intervention on their journey to send her home, because she didn't care if she ever saw her wretched brother again.

Upon their departure, Sylvia refused to see anyone for six days, barely leaving the wheelhouse and even when she did, she dashed away like a frightened deer when someone attempted to speak to her, slamming and locking the wheelhouse door out of spite for those taking her to new owners. Soon, as all children do, she grew lonely in her isolation, and left the wheelhouse begrudgingly when their rather small party stopped at inns and towns at night. Yet even then, she barely spoke, just quietly nibbled the fine meal the cook had made special for her and mulled over what her what her new foster family would think of her.

On one such a night, halfway through their journey, somewhere in the riverlands, Sylvia sat at the table, her septa to her left, hissing unheard criticism in her ear for her terrible table manners, while Ser Ravenback sat across from her. Six guards remained around the table, while the other six remained outside with two pages, ensuring no one stole the princess' belongings. Sylvia slowly ate a peppered boiled egg, completely uncaring the roast chicken set before her. She wondered if Lord Stark was as open with his whores as her father was. Many a time Sylvia had seen the masked fury in her mother's eyes whenever father carried on with those women at feasts, never caring in his drunken delirium, that his wife and children could see him. Sylvia did not know life any differently; it had always been like that, ever since she could remember, an eternal pattern of too many horns of wine, followed by plump serving wenches laughing stupidly on her father's lap. She had heard of lords having mistresses, but they were far more discreet since she only knew them through rumours. As far as Sylvia's young, childish understanding went, all men had whores in their beds; it was just a matter of how subtle they were with them.

Once she had asked her mother why father did the things he did, and Cersei just glared at her and said to never ask such a stupid question again. Sylvia had been five then, and cried for half an hour and explained the entire event to Stuffy as she lay abed, heartbroken at her mother's harshness.

None of those women father ever kissed or fondled even came close to her mother, strong and fierce and beautiful. She was the embodiment of quiet strength; the kind of strong Sylvia wanted to be. She knew lords and kings were not the same, and father had once spoken very highly of this stranger lord, but father's version of good company was...questionable.

Suddenly, a coin rolled towards her from across the table, a silver stag falling to its side and spinning to a stop. Looking up from her lap, she saw that Ser Fredrik only continued drinking his wine cup as if the coin had appeared out of thin air.

Slowly, she reached for the coin, feeling its cold weight in her fingers. The silver stag's antler necklace around her neck had once had that feel, so cold and surprisingly heavy. Uncle Renly had given it to her on her last name day celebration. "You're a Baratheon," he had said, his always kind and happy eyes making her smile as well. "Never forget that, no matter the sot you marry. You know our words: Ours is the Fury."

Ser Fredrik put down his goblet, and stole a quick glance at her, waiting for her to roll it back and begin the game they had played many times before. But Sylvia, still too hurt that she had been sold and bought by another family, slapped the coin down on the table and strode out of the tavern, all six of her guards marching after her. Ser Fredrik had half a mind to go out there and scold the child for her wretched attitude as they made their way north, but he held his tongue. The princess may favor him in her way, but he was still a servant and she was still his mistress, no matter how long he had been in service to her. The septa traveling with the princess was just as unable to do much. Princesses could be as irritable and bratty as they wanted, and only a noble could discipline them for their behavior. Anyone else would face punishment if they dared.

The next morning, Sylvia and septa Maesa sat waiting in the wheelhouse as the men outside ensured the horses were fed and watered. To pass the long tedious hours, the princess and her septa sewed, septa Maesa stitching together another ugly wool dress that her charge would wear in her new home and the princess was embroidering a crooked flower design onto a patch of ivory silk. She didn't know what to use it for yet, but it hardly mattered, especially since it was poor work and only a way to pass the time.

As they worked, septa Maesa attempted to refresh the princess' lessons on the north, she would be married to a Northman someday and it would be wise to know her husband's histories. "And what was the name of the Stark king who bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror?" the septa asked as the wheelhouse began to move.

Sylvia did not answer. The septa looked up to her charge, and saw that she did not even seem to hear her as Sylvia kept stitching with slow but careless precision. The princess' long black hair was pulled half back, a rather unimpressive, almost lazy style for a lady of her status, and it had been a challenge to get her dressed that morning into the plain green northern style dress she now wore. The girl seemed most determined to prompt her to anger, and the septa was loath to admit, it was working. "Sylvia."

At once the girl snapped her head up, glaring at the septa with her bright blue eyes as though the woman had just hissed a foul name at her. "Don't call me that." She spat. "I don't know you; you're not my mother, not Bryda. You've no right to call me by my name."

Sylvia didn't like this woman. She missed Bryda; she missed her stories, her soft words, and the mole on her cheek. But this septa Maesa, she wasn't warm, wasn't gentle, she was young enough to have straight fingers...she wasn't Bryda. Sylvia didn't want to learn new people, new faces, new stories. She had been perfectly happy in the Capitol, Joffrey's bullying aside. The south was all she knew, and she was the princess, why couldn't Robb Stark go south for her? Why did she have to go north for him? Why did she have to marry him at all? Nothing else would ever measure up to her home where the sun always shone, even in the rain, and where beauty was a natural thing everywhere you looked. Sylvia hated her father for doing this to her and hated all his councillors in King's Landing for not stopping him.

"Princess," the septa hissed, annoyance clear in her high voice. "What was the name of the Stark king who—"

"I don't care! Nobody cares about the king of a barren land who knelt to a conqueror three hundred years ago! No one cares what his name was and if Lord Stark wasn't my father's best friend, no one would care about hi—"

"Princess! Do not say such things!" the septa dropped her work to her lap, anger and shock written across her face. "It is extremely disrespectful of your foster family; those people will take you in and ensure you become a proper, cultured lady. They will be your family one day remember." The septa ranted, her resolve finally cracking as Sylvia finally stepped over the line she had been dancing upon.

Sylvia scoffed at her septa. "They will never be my family." She muttered, sadness creeping into her hard tone. She had a family already; she had no need for another. What could the Starks possibly have to offer her that she did not have in the south? In the south, bards and traders and men of every kind of mastery came in on the tide and wind, daily and beyond counting. It was always sunny in the Capitol; even the rain was warm as blood on ones skin. And in the Red Keep, her sister, Stuffy, mother and father lived. She missed them so much. She wanted to cry, but her mother's words had left a mark on her. Tears are the weakness of your heart made bare. So she kept her tears back until the black of night, when she finally let a few slip, clutching a soft silk pillow tightly in her arms.

And the Starks' opinion of her may quickly change when they learned about Stuffy. Sylvia wouldn't outright tell them, but these things had a tendency of following you from one place to another. Everyone thought she was strange, and although they never spoke it louder than whispers, those whispers seemed like shouts. The servants and some of the lesser ladies at court who had little grace when it came to gossip, watched her as if waiting for her to do something strange or make a utter fool of herself. When she first began to talk, and when Stuffy first came to light, Sylvia had been too young to care what people thought. Children so young had no idea that there was anything wrong or rude or ugly or cruel in the world. She had Stuffy, a playmate, a confidant...a friend, and that had been all that mattered. The names Joffrey had called her had once seemed so small, so...momentary, gone moments after the words left his mouth. Her mother and father never made fun of her, not in the painful way Joffrey did at least. Then Jon Arryn told her the truth of it and the ignorance of childhood began to fade away.

Life in the Capitol was familiar, she knew what to expect. In Winterfell, it would be like stepping into the frigid icy sea after a steaming hot bath.

"Like it or not, you'll marry Lord Stark's heir, you will be his wife and he will be your family. You will lady his castle and bear northern children." The septa continued her voice cold and commanding.

I don't want to be his wife, Sylvia thought, I would rather be an old maid my entire life than marry a stranger and have his children and live in his cold and murky castle, locked away forever and ever. What if he is like Joffrey? The thought frightened her.

What if...Robb Stark called her stupid, halfwit, foolish? What if he pulled her hair like Joffrey did or hit her like father hit mother? It may well hurt much more than Joffrey's taunts, because her mother or Bryda would not be able to comfort her or protect her from it. It was a common assumption that husbands were meant to be kind and gentle to their wives and having a husband who was anything but kind and gentle would hurt. He would be able to get away with it too because he would be her husband, and husbands were allowed to do as they wished with their wives, even if they were princesses.

\---------------------

Sylvia stared out the window as they entered the castle walls. After over a month's traveling, Sylvia Baratheon finally entered the walls of Winterfell castle, six of her guards leading the wheelhouse forward and the other six bringing up the rear. She bit her thumb nail as her stomach did flips inside her; she had never been so nervous in her entire life. What if they didn't like her?

Lord Eddard Stark stood in line with his family, his wife to his left as was the custom, and his children to his right. Behind them stood their household, all dressed in their finest clothes to receive the princess. When the unfamiliar guards entered the courtyard, followed by a wheelhouse that looked too big for an eleven year old girl, the boy at his side, Robb, tensed.

Each of Eddard's children had a different outlook to the coming of the princess. Sansa, his eight year old daughter, was unbelievably joyful. She had never met a princess before, and that caused for a bit of fascination and interest. The title which Sylvia Baratheon bore was a shining jewel to little Sansa's eyes, and she was very eager to meet the little lady. Arya, his second daughter, didn't much care that a princess was coming to be her mother's ward. She cared little for beauty and ladyship, his little wildling child loved running, getting dirty and roughhousing with her brothers. Bran, his six year old son, was only interested in the guards that would accompany Sylvia, already so fascinated with swords and archery and knighthood. Rickon, the toddler, was still at his wife's breast and didn't much know or care what was happening, only concerned with when his next feeding would be, and finding his feet. Jon, his bastard, was much like Arya, although he knew the gravity of the arrival better than her, so he was a bit more curious. Then there was Robb, his eldest son and heir, the one who would eventually marry the princess.

Lord Stark looked down at his son, smiling in affection when he saw Robb once again, shift from foot to foot, breathe in deep and sigh heavily for the tenth time. Robb was twelve years old, a child more than anything, but he was becoming a man, and men had duties they had to perform. It was a bit funny to call a marriage a duty, but really, when it was an arrangement, that is what it is. Still, as time goes by, an arrangement—a duty, can become a marriage, a privilege.

Robb was unsure what to make of it, never having met the girl and now ordered to marry her when they came of age. Why did he have to marry her? Why did she have to come all the way here to his home? Winterfell had always been his home, a place where his childhood played out and where he could be as he was without worry. Now this girl was going to live there, and he felt he would have to watch his steps, all because this girl was going to be his wife. It felt as though his home would not be his anymore, he would have to share it with a stranger. Mayhaps it wouldn't be so bad if she were not his betrothed; but she was, and he grew stiff as a board when thinking of how his simple world had changed in only a short time.

Finally, the wheelhouse came to a stop, and the guards dismounted their horses, and marched to the wheelhouse, one of the page boys opening the door with careful precision. Robb bit his lip, Sansa smiled gleefully, Jon watched in quiet curiosity, and Theon smirked, as he often did. The younger ones just watched, waiting for the pomp to be over with.

At first, a woman in a plain yellow dress and a head scarf stepped out of the wheelhouse and walked down the steps, frowning in the sudden light. Eddard guessed that was the child's septa. And then, Sylvia slowly stepped through the door of the wheelhouse, taking the septa's outstretched hand and walking down the steps with as much grace as a lady of her age possessed. She was a small little thing, shorter than Sansa, whose head already came up under Robb's chin. She had the same raven black hair as her father, and later he would find she had the same eyes, but as far as he saw, that was where the similarities stopped. The princess was skinny, delicate features, soft doe eyes framed by long black lashes, and timid, he noted when she didn't look up until she began walking towards them. Sylvia walked, slowly as if they were going to eat her. The Lord of Winterfell smiled gently.

Robb frowned. She was...she wasn't what he'd...he didn't know what he'd expected, but whatever it was, she was not it. She was a girl: same lithe build as any other girl their age, simple dark hair, a pretty face. She did not seem an enigma that he had thought she'd be, but rather just another girl he could have passed any day and not noticed. He did not know what else to make of her.

Catelyn stole a quick look at her eldest child, smiling at his befuddled look. When she was very young, a girl still, she had made that same face when she saw Brandon Stark the first time, the stranger who she would spend her life with.

Sylvia approached the Starks, scarcely daring to breathe as her numb feet moved. She knew it was impolite to refuse to meet your host's eyes, but Sylvia couldn't do it. She was too afraid, so she kept her head averted to their knees. No one's knees ever scared you. Not only was she shy of her hosts, she didn't want to look up and see her betrothed. A thought struck her suddenly. What if he was ugly? What if father had sold her to an ugly creature with one eye and no nose, and crooked nubs for fingers, and half an ear? What if he sold her to an imp like Uncle Tyrion? She bit her lip and bravely looked up, thinking of her mother and hoping she had mimicked her confidence well.

Lord Stark was a tall man, with kind eyes and his red haired wife was gentle looking. Sylvia kept her eyes trained on them and them only, feeling too nervous yet to look elsewhere. If Robb Stark looked like Uncle Tyrion, she didn't want to look at him; she'd probably break down weeping and run back to the wheelhouse and shame herself and her family for the rest of her life.

"Welcome to Winterfell, my princess." Ned said kindly when the small girl reached the line, her septa and sworn shield standing only a few paces behind her. He bowed slightly.

"Princess," Catelyn greeted, smiling a kind smile at the girl.

Sylvia looked down, her face never faltering from its cold, blank look. Bending her knees and keeping her back straight, Sylvia quickly curtseyed, so quickly in fact, it looked more like a hop than a curtsey. Theon snickered. Jory gave him a quick thwack on the back.

Now was the time for Sylvia to acknowledge her courtesies—thank the Starks for receiving her, pledging to be good and respectful ward, telling them that the nobles in the Capitol send their best—but Sylvia said nothing, her voice lost in the silent crowd of strangers waiting for her to speak. For a long, awkward moment, it was silent as the Starks waited for her to respond, some wondering if she was deaf and mute, and others (who had heard the rumours that the princess may be mad) wondered eagerly if the little royal would do anything strange. 

Septa Maesa raised her hand to poke the princess on the back, hoping it would strike some sense into the frozen child, but Ser Ravenback knocked the septa's hand aside roughly, shooting her a stern look. His glare at her was clear and loud, 'Let the girl alone'.

Sylvia flushed. Her mother would be ashamed of her daughter's timorous display. Sylvia curled her fingers. Mother had always been strong and regal, a queen through and through. When father embarrassed himself and mother as well, she always kept her head high, her shoulders back, her stare unwavering when others would avert their eyes. Sylvia's predicament was far less distressing. She sighed. "I...T-thank you for receiving me, Lord and Lady Stark."

The proper manners done with, the lord and lady grinned and the crowd seemed to relax.

"Princess, this is my son, Robb." Ned introduced. Sylvia wondered if he was trying to be subtle about it, wondering if he wanted to make it seem as though he was just introducing his child instead of the boy she'd marry one day, just to calm her nerves. Slowly, Sylvia lifted her eyes from her hands and looked at the boy standing beside Lord Stark. She began at his feet, at the brown leather boots he wore; then at his legs, clothed with black breeches that seemed a little too big for him; then at his chest, he wore a brown leather doublet over a dark blue tunic and on his shoulders was a cloak collared with warm rabbit fur. Then she looked at his face...and relaxed a little. At least he wasn't hideous.

Robb Stark was there somewhere between the innocence of childhood and the hardness of manhood, a softness still in his cheeks and chin and jaw, but it was already fading and becoming angular. He was taller than her, she probably only came up to his chest. His curly dark auburn hair was actually quite nice looking, and he had pretty blue eyes that stood out from his pale skin and dark hair. Still, she knew from Joffrey that a sweet face can house a gnarled soul.

Ned and Catelyn shared a small smile as the two children regarded each other with shy curiosity. They looked at each other a moment, before looking away, frowning and unsure. It wasn't the happiest reaction they could have hoped for, but it was to be expected. Children were not meant to deal with marriages; they were forced from the safety of childhood into the responsibility of adulthood so quickly. It was confusing and probably frightening, having the person you would be with for the rest of your life suddenly decided for you, and placed in front of you with everyone telling you "love them for they will give you children and you will be stuck with them until one of you dies."

"Come, princess," Catelyn addressed soothingly, hoping gentleness would calm the girl's nerves. "I'll show you your chambers, and perhaps fetch you something to eat. You must be hungry after your long journey." Lady Catelyn turned and motioned for Sylvia to follow.

Saying nothing, not even looking back to her companions, Sylvia followed Lady Catelyn. Sylvia's hand curled, wishing there was the warmth of someone else's hand in hers, holding her to the ground, to reality. It felt as though she was walking in a dream. She wished Stuffy was with her.

\------------------------

"Didn't like what ya saw, Stark?" Theon teased as he, Jon and Robb practised in the yard with their wooden swords later in the day just before the feast. Robb had not seen Sylvia again since she arrived early in the morning, and he was not sure he wanted to. What would he say to her?

Robb rolled his eyes. "No. Wait, yes, I mean, she's just not, she is, I—" Robb broke off, groaning in annoyance. "I don't know. She's pretty but..." he poked the blunt tip of the sword into the dirt at his feet. He didn't know what to say. Sylvia, he decided, was pretty, but he was a boy yet and it was all sudden for him. He didn't even know her and it felt like everyone was suddenly expecting him to like her after a moment of looking at each other. It was one thing to think a girl was pretty, but another thing entirely to decide she would make a good wife.

Theon laughed. "Well one of the maids—Wynifred, or was it Wynona?—" at sixteen years old, Theon Greyjoy was already popular with the maids about the castle. "Said the princess pushed all of them out of her room after all her things were brought up. Called them a bunch of ninnies when they tried to come back in to unpack."

She's probably tired, Robb thought but he didn't say it. If she was just a little twat he didn't want to go through the trouble of defending her.

"She's a princess, and it's her room now anyway. She's allowed tell them to get out." Jon mumbled, crossing his arms as best he could with the thick padding covering his chest.

"In any case, send her to me if you don't want her Robb. She's not a woman now, but in a few years, she'll be a right southern flower." Robb glared at his father's ward, raised his practice sword, and swiped him hard on the arm.

\------------------------

Sylvia looked at herself in the mirror as the maid behind her braided and pulled her hair. Stupid girl didn't know how to braid; Sylvia winced as she once again painfully twisted her hair into some ridiculous northern style. She wanted to tear the braids out, brush out her hair and go with her hair down. Looking plain was better than looking like some northern thing. She wished one of her maids from King's Landing had come with her, but septa Bryda had said a proper lady embraces the customs of her husband's land with grace and courage, so she had to go without as much as she resented it.

She already wore the dark blue dress Sansa had given her as a gift, an embroidered vine pattern along the arms and the nonexistent curve of her hips. Although the work was fine, she had seen finer in King's Landing. Sansa and her little sister Arya had come and gone not long ago, bringing the dress and a simple jewelled comb for her hair. To be polite, Sylvia pulled the ugly flower embroidery from her sewing basket, and gave it to silly Sansa. Sylvia smiled inside; Sansa would take the ugly thing just because she had given it to her.

Sansa chirped polite lines, while Arya blurted out whatever she wished. Sansa reminded her somewhat of Myrcella, always eager to please, always smiling, sweet and innocent. She liked it; maybe Sansa's presence might soothe the pain of being without her sister.

However, Sylvia hadn't met anyone like Arya, so unladylike, so carefree, and never afraid to say what she wanted. She was so...blunt. She seemed to care little if her sister screeched at her for it or if Sylvia sent her a disapproving look. Sylvia had never been around anyone that didn't tiptoe around her (but for Joffrey, but he was her brother so didn't count), but Arya did as she liked without fear. She scowled when Sansa tried to make her apologize for her rudeness to Sylvia and ran out of the room without saying goodbye. It was strange, Arya was strange, and she didn't know if it was endearing or annoying. Bryda had said that being a lady was to be a moving work of art, graceful, delicate, beautiful, and able to keep men entertained without taking their clothes off. Arya really wasn't the first three, but Sylvia couldn't deny the six year old was entertaining.

The love between the sisters was nothing like the love she had for Myrcella. Those two argued, both strong willed and unbendable, where Myrcella had been so sweet and little, she followed whatever her elder sister said. Sansa seemed rather mortified to be arguing in front of the princess, and in her annoyance, Sylvia pointedly asked the two to leave. She had traveled too far and too long to be made to listen to their stupid arguments.

Finally the stupid girl behind her had finished and carefully slipped the comb into the tangle of braids. It was time to go to the feast, and Sylvia hoped it wouldn't be a long one. She knew Robb would be the one to escort her in, after the lord and lady. She didn't know what to think of that, but hoped it wouldn't feel like walking on rocks.

\----------------

A week passed by with about as much clamour and movement as the first day Sylvia arrived. Her guards had been absorbed into Lord Stark's guard, much to her relief, and now she only had Ser Fredrik following her around all day. Lords and Ladies from the closer holdfasts arrived within the first few days of her arrival, brining kind greetings and gifts to the princess in welcome. Everyday Sylvia had to meet new people, sing new songs of thanks, she never knew what to expect. One lord, she couldn't remember his name, had actually given her a bear claw necklace, the twine sporting six long, curved bear claws. She liked that one most of all, because in the south, there were no bears.

In the second week, things had calmed a little, the lords and ladies went as quickly as they came, and Sylvia was finally able to sleep early and wake up late. Then her lessons began and she was told by Lady Stark she'd be taught the histories of Westeros, sums, some astronomy and geography from Maester Luwin, while her sour septa Maesa taught her womanly arts. Sylvia accepted without protest or enthusiasm.

The first day, it felt so strange, walking to the main hall in the castle where the maester taught his lessons. She had never been taught by a maester before, only by a septa. Mother said girls didn't need to learn those things; they never came in use when you were married, she had said. Perhaps this is what that shrew meant when she said that the Stark's would turn her into a proper, cultured lady.

"...and you mustn't speak out of turn, and don't slouch, a lady doesn't slouch like a common fishwife." Septa Maesa went on as she walked her charge to the great hall, yammering on about manners to Sylvia who walked quietly behind her, annoyed but nervous. The princess had been quiet this past week, not the lively, sweet girl she had been in King's Landing, but rather a shy, almost cold girl since entering Winterfell's walls.

Ser Ravenback trailed behind them, a little perturbed when Sylvia didn't reply back like he knew she would have. He worried for his charge; he liked her very much, having been with her since she was three when the queen found him at a tourney. Cersei had complimented his strength and endurance, and swore that if he kept her daughter safe from any harm that may come her way, she would pay him more gold than he could ever make as a simple hedge knight. He took it eagerly. But being around a small girl for days and days, watching her grow, and smile, and laugh and scream and whine had grown a strange affection in his heart, a soft vulnerable spot just for Sylvia. He did not hate it, but neither did he show it, it was just a simple fact Ser Fredrik Ravenback found no use in fighting.

"...and please, try not to be rude; your betrothed will be there with you, best not give him reason to mislike you." Finally, Sylvia had enough of sour septa Maesa's talk, the reminder that Robb Stark would be sharing her lessons igniting her annoyance into a spark. Like an indignant little girl, she screwed up her face and worked her mouth silently into an ugly distortion of what septa Maesa's face looked like. Pettily, Sylvia continued her silent mockery until they walked through the open doors of the hall, unthinking that anyone would be there yet. Unfortunately there was.

Robb Stark sat there, already reading a rather large book with Maester Luwin pointing out something for him on one thick, yellow page. The septa's voice carried and the two looked just in time to see a rather funny looking face that Sylvia was making.

Robb omitted a snort of laughter, which stopped Sylvia short, freezing at the unexpected laugh. The two children looked at each other for a second, horror written across Sylvia's pretty face at being caught, blushing like mad. Oh gods, now she would hear the taunts, not through the fault of rumours, but her own childish actions. She wanted to run away. Robb, however, was pleasantly surprised. She had been so detached this past week, it was nice to see her having something other than a blank expression on her face. Never would he have thought that the princess would be anything short of a perfect lady, always snooty and cloyingly polite, never anything else or in between; and there she was, making faces at her cranky looking septa like any other child their age. Baratheon seemed to be just a name she possessed, and he liked it, she seemed far less confusing and intimidating when she didn't have that name attached to her first.

"Ah, little lady," Maester Luwin greeted, a sly smile playing on his lips. "Please have a seat, Robb and I were just going over the regions of Westeros." Ser Fredrik and septa Maesa went away, the latter going to organize Sylvia's messy room, the former standing guard outside the door. Timidly, still mortified she had been caught, but seeing no way out of the coming lesson, Sylvia walked closer to the benches where Robb sat, and took a seat next to him. He was so tall next to her and for the first time, someone of similar age was taller than her.

The lesson progressed for the next hour without much noise from either student; both were still too scared to move around the one beside them. Sylvia was thankful. From Joffrey, she would have heard rude quips about her embarrassment throughout the lesson, but from Robb Stark she heard nothing but silence.

Every now and then, Sylvia would sneak a glance at Robb, admiring his profile, noticing the crease between his eyebrows when he wrote on the parchment. He seemed agreeable enough, as of yet, but he was still a stranger. She wanted to go home, so badly, but she couldn't help but have a small hope that he liked her, the childish need for acceptance tugging at her. She would never admit it, not even to herself. She wondered if she'd ever hear insults from his mouth, spitting at her like poison from a snake, just like mother had said. She hoped not.

"Alright, now princess, what was the name of the Stark who built the Wall and Winterfell?" Maester Luwin asked, pointing at the locations on the map in front of them. Sylvia tensed. At that moment she regretted not paying attention to her sour septa. She felt so horribly stupid, sitting there silent, no answer to give. But suddenly, an unexpected hand knocked against hers. She looked down, and felt the boy next to her force his warm hand between hers and quickly slip a folded paper between her fingers. As soon as she'd grasped it, he yanked his hand away, as if it had never been there.

For a moment she was stunned, sitting, unknowing what to do. Maester Luwin turned and began speaking, almost as if he knew what was going on, or Robb knew the old man's mannerisms well enough to know when to pass her the note.

"He lived during the Age of Heroes, they say he completed the Wall with the help of giants, his name has been repeated to present time..." the maester prompted, back turned, watching the Stark banner hang proudly from the stone wall, looking so dreary and cold.

Quickly, Sylvia unfolded the paper in her lap, blue eyes scanning over the parchment. "Bran the Builder." She read off, whispering silently to herself as she stared at the small strip of paper. When had he written this?

"Pardon?" Maester Luwin asked, turning back around to face the two children.

"U-uh, um," really, what choice did she have? "Bran the Builder?" she offered timidly, her voice small and unsure.

"Correct! Lovely; now Robb, what else did Bran the Builder develop during his reign as the King of Winter?" The old maester asked, oblivious to the brief transaction between the two.

The old man's voice seemed to fade away as she squeezed her hand around the paper, crumpling it into a ball. Sylvia smiled a shy smile, curious at Robb's actions. She hated this place, missed her family, but Robb's sudden act was kind, and if he was kind, perhaps it wouldn't be as horrid as she had thought it would be.

"Thank you." Sylvia whispered when the old man once again turned his back as he continued his lecture.

"You're welcome." Robb replied.

And so the lesson continued, both Robb and Sylvia feeling a little better about the arrangement thrust upon them.


	4. Home

Hold on, to me as we go  
As we roll down this unfamiliar road  
And although this wave (wave) is stringing us along  
Just know you're not alone  
Cause I'm gonna make this place your home

Home by Philip Philips  
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Chapter 1

Three years later

For a long time, Sylvia stared at herself in the mirror, staring at the pretty young face that frowned back at her, still soft and innocent from her girlhood, her long black hair, wet from her bath, dripping beads of water down her body. In her concentration, she hardly felt the shiver move through her, staring intently down at the small breasts budding on her chest and further down still to the curls between her legs.

It was early afternoon and she had just finished her bath, having ordered her handmaidens out of her chambers once more so that she may dress herself without them watching her. Really, how much help could they offer, after she chose not to wear a corset? This was also the only time where she could thoroughly examine the womanly body she now possessed, looking and touching herself in ways she never could with others present, or at night in the dark, under the covers.

She brushed her long wet hair back and raised her hand to touch her breast, feeling the soft mound fit easily in her palm, the nipple, hardened from the cold air, poking against her skin. She felt very grown all of a sudden, like a woman. She wasn't a child anymore, that was clear, but she wasn't yet a woman. Her body still had some of the flatness of her girlhood, and she was only just starting to grow rounder.

These changes seemed to happen overnight somehow. It felt like one night she lay down to sleep and when she awoke, these womanly features had just grown, strange and almost unanticipated.

Sour septa Maesa had even said as much. A few months ago, while she read over a book about the customs of old Valyria (she had wanted the read the book about the Summer Islands, but septa Maesa refused to let her—said it was a vulgar thing for a lady to read), the stern looking woman spoke up from her stitching, her voice loud in the all but silent room. "You're truly coming into a womanly form." The sour old woman commented from her chair, almost sounding indifferent to the budding flower her charge was growing into. But Sylvia could tell the sour septa would say more, and probably offend her, as she always did when she used that voice to speak of delicate things in a rather indelicate manner. "Have you bled yet?" she asked bluntly, as though she was simply asking if Sylvia had remembered her manners when socializing with other ladies.

A sudden flame scorched across the young girl's face, coloring her pale skin red up to the roots of her hair. Sylvia snapped her head around to stare at the woman, unsure if she had heard her right, and quickly looked away when she found the septa staring right at her, unflinchingly. To her young virgin ears, hearing such private things spoken of so carelessly was as callous as an old sailor trying to woo a noble born lady with lewd words. "I, how can you, no...Don't ask me that!" the princess screeched.

"Princess, this is a matter of great importance!" septa Maesa reminded her for the thousandth time. "You are a princess and you were born for this, child. You will marry the north and bind the crown to the Starks. You will be a lady of the north and your son will be young Robb's heir..." Sylvia sighed in annoyance, dropping her book into her lap. The old crone always reminded her of her duty; so many times Sylvia felt she could repeat her word for word.

Why was getting married and having children her duty anyway? What did it matter who fathered her children? Not that she'd ever put her future children's parentage into question, mind you—she was a good girl, and even the thought of lying with anyone else but her intended was shameful. A lady lies with her lord, no one else. But she couldn't help but wonder, who had decided that a lady's only duty was to make babies for her husband, but a man's duty was to lead, be fierce in battle, manage sums, keep the peace, and a hundred other things? A man couldn't be good at all that. Maybe his wife could help him? She was clever; Maester Luwin and Lord Eddard said so.

Anyhow, Lady Catelyn wouldn't have her in with Robb as Maester Luwin's pupil if there weren't other things she needed to learn. Sylvia could smile. She was better than Robb at history and astronomy, she remembered facts and constellations better than he did, and always corrected him when he tried to point out a set of stars to her or his younger brothers and sisters. But he was better than her at sums and geography. Slightly, she thought haughtily. She liked to think when they married, they would be as matched as they were now in their lessons—that they would be as equals, each giving the other something the other needed, besides a warm bed at night, and little children to scurry about these cold stone halls.

But Sylvia didn't smile. Her septa was still blabbering on. "...and so have you bled yet?" the dark haired princess did not answer, and made no indication she'd even heard the woman, as she so often did. "Well?" the sour woman demanded.

With great annoyance Sylvia grumbled out a short, "No," and the rest of the evening was spent in a cold silence.

Yes, Sylvia was becoming a pretty young lady, but she was still a girl. Girl...she'd never thought that word would sound like a curse to her ears.

That had been just a few short months ago, and still, no blood. She was getting rather impatient for it, to be honest. At four-and-ten, she felt like a child. What if people started talking? What if she never bled, and was never able to wed Robb, or have children? 

Mother said high born girls bleed at thirteen, but her thirteenth year had come and gone without event...well other than when Arya had given Sansa a toad for her name-day, that had been quite an amusing event, but the one that was essential to her family's ambition. Sylvia was the princess, much more than a lord's daughter, expected to be nothing but grace and perfection, to run a household, raise a family, perfect and beautiful, until she died. There was no other glory or honor a girl like her can have, but for the birth of strong and healthy children. Because she would marry into one of the oldest houses in the realm—ancient, wealthy and honourable—every month that passed would be watched with great interest, and her place in the north would only be cemented when she brought forth a Stark child. 

She was supposed to be perfect, and marry Robb and give him babies, but each passing month made a little more anxious. What was wrong with her? Why wasn't she a woman yet? Septa Maesa said women that flowered late, had a harder time having babies. 

Suddenly, the shudders of her window rattled with the wind, and a cold shiver slid down her wet back as the wind raced through the cracks of the wood and into her room. At once she grabbed up her under shift and yanked it over her head, then sat down on her bed and wrapped herself in the shawl that had been lying on the warm fur blanket.

One thing she had never gotten used to was the cold—the south had never had cold like this, even in the winter. And with that thought, she missed the Capitol once more, although the ache had faded in the last three years into something bearable.

"My lady," a soft voice called from beyond her door. She knew the gentle, timid voice. It was Pansy, one of her handmaidens, who after being dismissed by her young mistress, found it suitable to wait outside the door until the princess called her back in again. "Y-your septa wants you for lessons," Pansy told her.

The onyx haired princess rolled her eyes, not out of any real annoyance, but out of long established disdain for her frigid septa. Still, she stood and walked to the dressing screen at the corner of her room, and retrieved the blue dress flung over the top of it. Dressing quickly, she called for Pansy to tie the tricky laces up the back and then stalked down the cold corridors towards the Great Hall in Winterfell for lessons, Ser Fredrik quietly at her side.

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"...and in considering the values, how long would it take to reach Deepwood Motte?" the old Maester's voice carried down the stone corridors and bounced off the hollow hall where Robb Stark and Sylvia Baratheon's lessons were conducted for four hours every day.

The young lord and princess sat beside each other, as they had nearly every day since the young princess first arrived in Winterfell. Maester Luwin could hardly believe how much the two had grown in such a small amount of time—he had known Robb since he was a babe at his mother's breast, and had seen Sylvia nearly every day since she became the Stark's fosterling...it warmed his heart to look at them now, so young and with so much to look forward to.

Robb didn't answer at once, as he worked the numbers around in his head, but he was still a lot faster than Sylvia who was desperately trying to conjure an answer, her fingers dancing anxiously on the table. Given time and parchment to work the answers out on, she would get it...eventually. "A month and a half, if the weather is fair." The young lordling answered.

"Well done." Maester Luwin praised softly, but no less genuinely.

By far, sums were Sylvia's least favorite lesson. She felt the fool whenever she missed an answer or simply couldn't find it, and immensely enjoyed history and astronomy lessons, where she proved time and time again she was as clever as Robb. When sour septa Maesa learned of her charges' fondness of besting her betrothed, the woman entered into a tiring lecture on how proper, gentle ladies were supposed to be glad for their lord's accomplishments, not make it into a competition and enjoy competing with him. Ladies didn't do such things.

Sylvia huffed in annoyance, dropping the quill to the parchment. "This is so bloody stupid!" she grumbled. She turned to Robb, glaring at him with her ocean deep eyes. "Robb, can't you give me a moment to answer for once?"

"Well I could, but if I did, we'd be here till past supper and I rather like the cooks' roasted lamb." Robb countered cheekily, amusement dancing in his lake blue eyes at his friend's annoyance. Sylvia was fun to tease, she would get so worked up: stomp her foot, poke his chest, pout her pretty pink lips, and by the time she'd storm away in a huff, Robb was so amused, his glee would pass to Sylvia, effectively ending her frustration.

"Robb," the Maester chided softly.

"Oh, shut it." Sylvia hissed back at the boy. "How many times have I fallen asleep, while waiting for you to find the Warrior's Star? And the Mother's Comet? Or the Dancing Doe? Or the Dragon's Eye?"

"Sylvia," the Maester interjected again. Unlike the child's septa, the sweet old man had the princess' permission to call her by name.

"Stars look all the same! They're just little dots in the sky!" the auburn haired boy countered hotly.

"That's why you have to be especially clever to tell between them." Sylvia smiled sweetly. Robb's eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth to counter her words, but Maester Luwin cut him off.

"Enough, from the both of you." The two children looked away from each other, and turned to the Maester, almost as if remembering he was there. "You'll have plenty of time to bicker at each other outside of this Hall. Now is the time for sum lessons." He emphasized by tapping the parchment laid out in front of him with his stick. Even when scolding them, Sylvia thought, he always managed to sound sweet and kind, not haughty or mean.

"Yes, Maester." They chorused. Maester Luwin nodded in approval, but as soon as his back was turned, Sylvia turned to Robb to smack his arm, while he made a little face at her.

So much had happened in the three years that Sylvia had lived in Winterfell. Gone was the little girl Robb had known, frightened of her new surroundings, and angry and bratty to everyone who had sent her there and everyone that had welcomed her.

For a good long time in the beginning, Robb didn't even know what Sylvia sounded like or if she even could, always quiet and shy as she was. She would look so distant sometimes, probably thinking of her family so far away in the south, and when she came back, remembering where she was, a sigh would leave her, her sadness making the air around her grow thick with discomfort, leaving Robb at a loss of what to say. He felt so awkward around her, especially these times. He was to marry her one day; shouldn't he know what to say to make her happy? Yet little black haired princess took Sansa's soft words with a gentle smile that was easily forced, and did not look to him as though she expected something from him. Robb was half grateful and half...annoyed about that. She might not expect him to do something but he knew he had to.

So Robb swallowed his fear and uncertainty, speaking to her, smiling kindly, inviting her to spend time with him and his siblings, helping her with answers in lessons—anything to put her at ease. It was the right thing to do, his noble father told him. "A little kindness you show her now," Lord Eddard had said, "will water the seed for a good marriage."

"But she isn't even trying!" Robb explained to his father, confusion and anger in his young eyes.

"She is a little girl," Lord Eddard reminded him. "The princess is very far from home, most like misses her family. You are a northman, you know our ways, our customs, our lands. She is a southerner. Winterfell is as strange to her as the south would be to you."

All his efforts seemed for naught, however, and Robb soon began to fear that what was between them—or rather what wasn't between them—would carry on until he and Sylvia were married, forced to endure the other's presence, for the sake of their honour and bloodline. The thought filled him with dismay and he came to dread every lesson, every feast and every moment of free time he and Sylvia were forced to spend together by his mother. Lessons were filled with customary greetings and farewells, answers and questions for only the old maester teaching the two. Feasts always promised sweaty palms and sore toes when they danced, but a shy attraction at seeing the other looking their best. Their free time together varied, each time was different—sometimes it would last a moment, other times an entire afternoon, now and then they'd be outside with the other children, and others they'd be alone in the castle.

Neither child noticed with the shyness their betrothal brought, but over the weeks and weeks of seeing each other every day, Lord and Lady Stark's hope came true: they became familiar with each other, getting used to the other's simple presence. This familiarity eased the children's tension, now knowing what to expect from the other, and brought a little warmth to their time together little by little.

It happened gradually, but brick by brick, the walls came down, the armour came off, neither noticing the new vulnerability, only happy to feel warmth in their otherwise icy relationship.

Sylvia started it first, giggling at something witty Robb said in the middle of their history lesson. The hurt of leaving home was still there in her heart, but it had begun to dull, as all pain does with time. Then Robb asked her if she would like to play with him and his siblings in the godswood, without a hint of reluctance in his voice...and everything took flight. They began enjoying each other's company, finding that when they spoke, they liked the things that came from the other's mouth.

There were times when they hated each other, particularly when Robb refused to let Sylvia play with him, Jon and Theon. Robb hated that she always tried to intrude on their rough games and turn them into girly ones, and Sylvia hated that he always refused her. But children's anger is petty, so it didn't last very long.

King Robert smiled a little when the stewards brought him a letter from Ned, informing him that Sylvia had taken to riding with young Robb in their free time. Robert sat back in his chair, still clutching the small scroll. He and his Lyanna had enjoyed riding together to the Wolfs Wood and back, they had been so happy...he found himself almost resenting the fact that Sylvia would know the happiness he never would again. Lifting his cup to his mouth, Robert Baratheon forgot his troubles in the deep red drink sloshing about in his goblet.

The queen received the same letters, heard the same news, but received them much differently than her husband: Cersei didn't believe them and certainly didn't find them bittersweet reminders of young love. Sylvia was her daughter, and her children were made of stronger stuff; they were Lannister's after all. But then again...Sylvia was half Roberts as well, half a stag, and Robert was weak—pining away for a woman long dead, drowning himself with wine and food and women, growing fatter and stupider each year. Joffrey was all hers and Jaime's, all Lannister. The two were so different, night and day, lion and stag...Sylvia had to be softer than Joffrey; her father was a drunken fool after all, where as Joffrey was her beautiful brother's, strong and fierce. But Sylvia had to be smarter than to trust that Stark boy with her heart. She simply had to.

Of course neither Sylvia nor Robb knew these little facts, but it didn't matter. Life was uncomplicated now, and all they knew how to do was to enjoy it until the inevitable day when they would swear their vows before the heart-tree.

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It happened one afternoon as she embroidered a kitten pattern on a stretch of silk for little Tommen. Tommen was about to turn three and Sylvia had heard from Myrcella that he adored kittens, so she decided to make him a pillow with kittens on it, and send it all the way down to the Capitol for the little brother she had never met.

Mother had lied. Sylvia never got the chance to visit her home, she would not see her family again until she was married it seemed, and she had hoped that would be very, very soon. If she had flowered when she was supposed to at thirteen, she would be married by now, and her mother and father and siblings would be there in Winterfell with her. She could see how Myrcella had grown without her there, ask her if Joffrey had been cruel to her or Tommen without the fear of someone hearing and telling mother. She could finally meet Tommen, let him know he had an elder sister from far away and give him a lot of hugs and kisses so he wouldn't forget her again when he went back south. She could see mother and father and uncle Tyrion and uncle Renly again... she wouldn't be the lone southerner in Winterfell any longer.

But none of that had happened, and it wouldn't until she was ripe and ready to bear babies. She wasn't entirely eager about that prospect, but she supposed it was a price she'd have to pay to see her mother and father again. Sylvia would go without her family until then, like some cruel punishment. The Stark's were kind enough, she liked the other Stark children but they weren't her siblings (although she was very thankful they weren't Joffrey). She liked the lord and lady but they weren't her mother and father. Winterfell wasn't the Red Keep and the north certainly wasn't the south. This strange, cold place was lovely enough, but her heart still longed for the warmth of King's Landing.

Sylvia sighed, lowering her needlework to her lap. These thoughts were making her sad. It wasn't as though mother and father didn't want her to visit; there must be some reason behind it. Perhaps they thought if she visited the Capitol, she'd refuse to leave again, or maybe it was because the kingsroad was dangerous in the summer years, bandits and savages ready to steal and raid...yes there must be a reason. Mother and father wouldn't leave her here without a reason.

The princess sighed and lifted up her work once again, stitching the dainty paw on the last kitten into the silk fabric.

She hoped Tommen liked it; she wanted this stranger brother of hers to love her. Maybe if she was especially kind to him, he wouldn't be mean to her like Joffrey was. Sylvia only knew of Tommen through what little her sister could describe of him in her letters. She knew he was golden haired and emerald eyed, like Myrcella and Joffrey, that he was chubby as all babies were; that he liked kittens and sweets, and ran around after hit pet rabbit as fast as his baby legs could take him. Words only went so far, and she couldn't wait to meet her little brother.

Smiling a little at the kittens playing on the stretch of silk, Sylvia stood, intending on taking a break from her work and take in the Glass Gardens for a while, perhaps with Sansa or Robb or maybe she would just walk with Ser Fredrick. But when she stood, she felt a wet, gooey gush between her legs and something warm running down the inside of her thigh.

She froze, frowning at the strange sensation, dropped her work onto the floor, and then lifted up the skirt of her dress in a very unladylike manor that would have made her septa keel over dead at the sight. Sylvia pulled the layers of skirts up past her knees, to the tops of her thighs until her legs were only covered by her knee high stockings. Reaching one hand between her legs, she felt there a moment over her small clothes, and pulled back her hand.

The tips of her fingers were coloured a bright red. She looked down to her thighs then, and whimpered at the amount of blood stained there, fear and horror gripping her heart at the messy sight of it. A whirlwind of emotions swarmed thorough her then, like the rough winds in the winter, yanking and shaking flecks of snow through the air, traveling a hundred different directions because of one factor.

"S-septa!" Sylvia called out, her voice soft with a quiet kind of urgency.

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The girl remained there in her room for the next few days, hardly seeing anyone. Somehow she had managed to convince her septa that she should not be out and about, that her newfound "condition" caused her unbearable belly pains and horrible headaches. Over exaggerated lies, Sylvia was simply too shy to see anyone, now that they all knew something so...personal...was happening to her, something so ugly, and messy and so indelicate. For all her titles and the prestige her name was held in, Sylvia was still a girl, not half as strong to bear the weight of the duty her father's name pressed down on her, and certainly not able to face the world as this disgusting thing continued on.

For the most part, Sylvia simply lay stiff on her bed, too cautious to move in case any blood dripped down onto the sheets. The princess would try to read her book, or be social with Ser Fredrik, but mostly, she was just lost in her own head. Sylvia knew she ought to be pleased. This was what she'd wanted, wasn't it? Now she'd get to see her family again, when they came for her wedding in a years time. But soon she realized what the blood on her small clothes meant. She'd be Sylvia Stark, a woman grown, wedded and bedded, and one day, she'd be Lady Stark. With this new status, she was now faced with many more duties; some she did not know how to handle or if she even could.

Her upcoming marriage was most prominent in her mind. For a very long time, she had only thought of what that day would bring: her family—she had never really thought of the gravity of it. Married, she would be married, a wife...Robb's wife...the concept was so strange, so utterly foreign she wanted to cry and scream at the same time. She didn't know if she knew how to be a wife, how to make Robb happy or offer him good advice or simply comfort him. Wives had to do all that and more for their husbands, and her septa said if she was a good wife to Robb, he would love her and their marriage would be happy. And Robb was very kind to her, but...Sylvia didn't think he liked her the way a boy should like his betrothed.

Sylvia grunted as she turned over trying to get comfortable, not caring for just a second that she could feel that messy goop between her legs. That last thought made her very sad. Robb had never even kissed her, and now she was going to have to marry him and...touch him and...share his bed. The princess' face flushed a deep red at the thought. Of course there wouldn't be anything improper about it, Robb would be her husband, she would be his wife...but it was so embarrassing, the idea of being so open, laid bare in front of someone for the first time, someone you've never even kissed before that day.

Sometimes she wondered if Robb even noticed that she was growing into a woman. She'd certainly noticed he was becoming a man. Sylvia sighed. It didn't seem like he noticed and if he had, he didn't show any interest. Robb's eyes didn't follow her longer than usual, he spoke to her about normal, common things rather than sweet soft things like a lover does, and he had never kissed her. She tried not to feel sad for this, but how could she not? Robb was going to be her husband soon enough and what wife wanted a husband that didn't think she was beautiful, that didn't want her? 

If he didn't like her as a man likes a woman, it would be embarrassing; people would think she wasn't good, they would think she wasn't doing her duty as his wife. They would talk, everyone in the north would talk, think her barren, perhaps even say s he wasn't a maid when she went to Robb's bed, and be the shame of the entire north. She didn't understand why. 

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A gentle breeze softly lifted a strand of the princess' silky black hair, but she hardly felt the tickle on her neck, too lost in her thoughts. The bark of the heart-tree behind her was rough even through the thickness of her dress and cloak, but the moss she sat on was comfortable and the way her knees were drawn up helped to keep the cold away.

Her courses had ended two days before, and this was the first time she'd been outside the castle since it had started. She hadn't seen Robb yet, nor Jon or that smiley squid boy. Apparently Lord Stark and the boys had left a few days ago to settle a dispute at Torrhen's Square; some slave traders were caught trying to ship away captured common folk or something like that. Lady Catelyn said Robb would be home very soon, as though Sylvia missed him more than anything, now that she was ready to be his wife.

Sylvia groaned, dropping her hand from her cheek. Lady Catelyn had been quite happy to see Sylvia the day her red flower began to bloom. The princess wondered if every mother was happy to know their son's betrothed was ready to bear him children, or if Lady Catelyn was just strange. She supposed it didn't matter; the lady still took her hands in hers and smiled so kindly at her when she said she was now a woman and would be Robb's wife just after her fifteenth name-day. Sylvia smiled politely to hide her fears, and Lady Catelyn kept her company the entire afternoon talking about many things – wedding plans, what to expect now that she was a woman, what to expect when having a child, and how it was natural to be afraid, that Robb would be there to hold her hand through it all, just as Lord Stark had done for her.

The lady seemed to think that love had just burst in Sylvia's heart for Robb because of some blood. But that wasn't true. Nothing had really changed besides the fact that she was now ready to have babies. She did miss Robb's company because he was away, she missed his wit and sweetness and she missed the happy gleam he emitted, but it was something she could live through, it didn't hurt at all. Was it supposed to? Was being without him meant to hurt her? Was that love? Hurt?

Lady Catelyn liked to be around Lord Stark, the two always smiled together and touched, and the admiration in their eyes made it clear that they must love each other...and when the man was away, Lady Stark was a bit more somber, quieter, and more than once, Sylvia had seen a far off look in her eyes, probably thinking about her lord. Then when Lord Stark returned, she was happy again.

Mother and father were entirely different. They never smiled together, touched each other, or even said much to each other, even in private. It was a rare occasion when father visited her mother's apartments and didn't simply send for her or his children. Mother never complained when father left on hunting trips, in fact she seemed happier when he was gone. The young princess shifted, growing uncomfortable with these thoughts, but unable or unwilling to think of anything else.

At night sometimes when father visited her mother's chambers, Sylvia would awaken to shouts and the sounds of clattering silverware and bodies hitting furniture. She didn't remember what they would say, but it didn't matter, they were angry words, violent sounds, that made it impossible to go back to sleep. She was always too afraid to venture outside her room to see what was happening, but the next day, (and many days after), mother would be too angry to see her, leaving her with her Bryda and Fredrik. When mother's anger had waned, and she did see her children, the girl would see an ugly purple mark somewhere on Cersei's ivory skin.

Those times were few, but they'd burned into the young princess like a brand, a memory that stood out more than she'd wished. 

Father wasn't any better, always drinking too much, never caring if his wife could see him with his whores and once or twice, Sylvia saw him publically yell at her mother, (the queen!), when she spat venom back at him. When Sylvia was with her father in his chambers, visiting him, hearing his war stories, he never said anything nice about mother. Not a word, a hint or a whisper that there was anything but bitterness and hatred between them.

Sylvia felt tears stinging her eyes, and tried desperately to blink them back, but it was no good, the tears came anyway. It shouldn't have been as nasty a blow as it was, because she had grown up in it, seen it since she could remember, and never knew anything different...until the Starks. This northern family had shown her what a man and woman were supposed to feel for each other. Between her parent's marriage, and Lord and Lady Stark's marriage, the latter seemed a more pleasant one, the kind she wanted for herself, a happy union without fear. But that was not what caused her distress; knowing you came from a place where the two people you loved more than anything hated each other, would make any child quite a bit upset.

A terrible, painful thought came to her then: what if her parents hated her? She came from hate so how wrong would it be to assume they resented her, even just a little? Sylvia sniffled, wiping her face on the sleeve of her dress.

A twig suddenly snapped, quickly drawing her attention.

A look of surprise and concern came across Robb's face as he saw Sylvia, her face wet with tears, eyes holding nothing but hurt then shock and then shame when she saw it was him.

Robb, his father, his brother and his father's ward had just come back from Torrhen's Square, and after greeting his mother, sisters and little brothers, he set off to find Sylvia. It didn't surprise him that she didn't know he had arrived back in Winterfell; the Starks didn't come and go on ordinary journeys with a lot of spectacle.

Sylvia quickly stood, embarrassed that he, of all people, had found her like this, blubbering like a baby. Her face coloured red, and she wanted to run and hide from his look of alarm, bury her face in the snow until he went away. Without thinking, she lifted her arm and wiped her face again, trying to get rid of the evidence of her tears and after a moment more, she turned and walked away, hoping he would just leave her be. Sadly, Robb Stark didn't leave her be. He was his father's son, and wouldn't leave a lady crying, letting whatever was troubling her bother her any longer.

"Wait!" He called, jogging to catch up to her. Sylvia didn't stop but she wasn't running, so he caught up to her easily. He caught her arm, bringing her to a halt, but she didn't look at him. "Sylvia, what's wrong? Please tell me."

The princess didn't look at him. Instead she sniffled once again, and wiped her face on her soiled dress sleeve. She didn't want to tell him. Mother said tears made you weak, and bad people would use them against you. But Robb wasn't bad at all, he would never hurt her. So she quietly raised her head, and turned toward him.

"I...L-lady Catelyn says I'm ready to be your wife." It was the quietest, most timid statement Sylvia had ever uttered in her life. It took Robb a very long moment to process her words, but when he did, he dropped her hand as though she'd burned him. A painful volt went through Sylvia's tummy, wondering if this was the beginning long years of bitterness for them.

Robb was dumbfounded; it was the last thing he'd ever expect to hear her say. Of course he knew what it meant: she'd bled, and now they would be married. Father told him that love grows in time, and he believed it would be very easy to love Sylvia. He didn't love her – she was his friend and when he saw her, he always saw that shy, skinny little girl that invaded his castle three years before, the one that hadn't wanted anything to do with him for a good six moons.

"Is that why you're crying? You don't want to be my wife?" Robb asked.

Sylvia's wide eyes snapped back up to his. "No! No! I-it's not that, I promise."

"Then what is it?" He asked, a tinge of irritation seeping into his voice.

She shifted again, in an awkward manor. This was almost as bad as telling him she had flowered. "I...I don't know...I don't know how to be married." Gods that sounded stupid! "I don't know...if I'll m-make you happy like Lady Catelyn makes Lord S-stark, or i-if...you'll ha-hate me l-like, like..." She couldn't say it, not out loud, not yet. Sylvia hated the fresh trail of tears that made its way down her cheeks, hated her weakness, and hated her parents for causing this hurt. Sylvia sniffled and wrapped her arms around her middle, turning her head away so Robb wouldn't see her tears. Gods, why didn't she let Ser Fredrick accompany her!? She could've ordered him to pick her up and run. 

Robb backed away a little. Crying girls was not something he was familiar with, especially one he had never seen cry before. Whenever Sansa or Arya cried, they ran off, Sansa to mother and Arya to father or her room. But in her three years at Winterfell, Robb had never seen Sylvia cry, even when she cut her leg on an overturned log last year. He didn't know what to do. He just wanted her to stop, to go back to being the smiley girl he saw all the time.

He bit his lip, stepping forward a little, raising his arms to hug her.

When his stronger arms enveloped her smaller form, Sylvia turned her head back to him, and suddenly his lips were on hers, warm and soft and clumsy. She jerked back a bit, eyes wide with shock, but his lips stayed against hers, not moving, but sweet all the same.

Robb hadn't meant for it to happen, it just did. One second he was just hugging her, the next he was kissing her. He was dimly aware that her tears were wetting his cheeks as well, and that her eyes were watching him with quickly fading shock and sadness, but all he could really focus on was how soft and warm her lips were, and how good it felt to hold her. The little voice in his head, calling him a fool for just rushing into this like a dog running at a hare, grew silent as the kiss went on and Sylvia's eyes closed.

It wasn't entirely unpleasant, not for Sylvia at least. It was a nice distraction from her thoughts, and it felt very good to be so close to him. Later, in her chambers, a sudden rush of elation would strike and she'd jump with giddiness, because Robb had kissed her. Finally. But for now all she could think as how good he smelled (like leather and smoke and ice and winter), and how she rather enjoyed how this felt. 

When they pulled away, both took cautionary steps back, in case the other hadn't liked it at all. Their lips still tingled from that brief moment, cheeks flushed with the shyness and elation that came after first kisses.

They awkwardly parted at the gate into Winterfell castle, both stuttering out promises to see each other the next day, and left the other blushing madly, smiling like they were on top of the world so fair.

\----------------------------

The next day...

"Did you kiss me out of pity?" was Sylvia's first question the next day after lessons. Maester Luwin had just left the two in the Great Hall, both Robb and Sylvia remaining behind to steal a quiet moment together. Robb was about to take her hand in his and ask if it would be alright to kiss her again, but she spoke first, and killed the mood.

Things seemed relatively normal between them, but entirely different. It had just been a day, and Robb already felt as though he was always smiling at her, always blushing around her, always wanting to kiss her and hold her as he had the day before. He had seen Sylvia smile and blush as well, but they hadn't yet had the chance to speak about what had happened the day before. The welcome home feast held in Lord Stark and his sons' honour had quickly become too fast and rambunctious to get a quiet moment with Sylvia. 

Lord and Lady Stark retired early, and Sylvia went off to bed not long after, after only two cups of wine. Robb remained in the Hall with his base born brother, Theon and a few other lads, drinking and making merry until half the night was gone. The lordling's head ached in the morning, but Maester Luwin was merciless and set him and Sylvia to work as soon as they'd finished breaking their fast. Much to Robb's annoyance, the old man gave them no chance to say more than a word of greeting, before beginning their lessons.

Now they were finally alone, and she had to go and ask a question like that? Good gods, Sylvia over thought almost everything! When they were married, he'd make it a silent mission to get her to relax.

"What?" Robb asked.

"Did you only kiss me because I was – well, you know." And she had too much pride to even admit she had been crying. Robb smiled at that, but then it disappeared as he thought for an answer.

It had been for pity when she was crying, but it had awoken something in him. He saw her differently. Not as a little girl, some girly, annoying creature that had always wanted to join in their rough games and make them girly, but as a young lady, with a pretty smile, and a rounding figure and soft skin and sweet lips. For the first time in knowing her, Robb finally believed he saw who she was, rather than what she was.

But instead of saying all that, Robb only moved forward, took her small, soft hand in his, and leaned his head down. Sylvia closed her eyes again as Robb kissed her again. It was even better than last time. This time, they were in the warm castle, she wasn't blubbering, and his mouth didn't feel clumsy like it had last time. And this time their lips moved.

She liked this very much, and now that he kissed her again, she knew Robb did as well. Maybe this was love, maybe not, but either way, Sylvia would greatly enjoy figuring it all out.


	5. The Wedding, Part I

**Chapter 2: The Wedding Prt 1: The Arrival**

_One year later..._

Sylvia stood before her mirror, admiring her image with a giddy smile that had little to do with how beautiful the image in the mirror was. Everything seemed wonderful to her today, nothing in the world could be wrong. The cold air of her chambers was crisp and refreshing, the fact that her feet already hurt from her slippers didn't bother her, and she couldn't even summon any anger when septa Maesa began to crow how proper ladies do not relish in their own beauty as she was at the moment. That wide smile never wavered from her face since she opened her eyes that morning, because today was the day her family would arrive in Winterfell.

For four _long_ years, Sylvia had not seen her family, had not heard her mother's voice nor felt her slender fingers through her hair; she had not heard her father's boisterous laughter or his powerful voice as he recounted his war days, had not played with little Myrcella, or admired the beautiful colours of Uncle Renly's wardrobe. The fact that she would, once again, made her heart all aflutter, like a child anticipating her name-day.

A knock sounded at the door. _"Lady Sylvia,"_ it was the deep voice of her sworn shield, and oldest friend, Ser Fredrik Ravenback. _"It's little Lady Sansa."_

"Send her in!" she called back. Turning from the mirror, Sylvia turned towards the door to receive her friend. A moment later, the door opened and the young girl with distinctive auburn hair glided forward. "Thank you very much, Ser Fredrik." She might have asked that he join them, but she did not wish to insult him by doing so. Where would a knight find enjoyment in listening to two ladies exchange pleasantries? But she loved her shown shield, as much as Bryda, and liked to have him close, especially now that Bryda was gone. There would be no one to replace him if he ever left her. The aging hedge knight bowed to the little ladies, and retook his place standing guard outside Sylvia's door, as the two prattled on over one another's dresses.

"Oh Sansa, you look so lovely!" Sylvia gushed as she took the other girl's hands in hers. Sansa, now twelve years old, was so beautiful and graceful, she reminded Sylvia of the troop of Myrish dancers that had arrived in King's Landing when she was almost too little to remember.  Sansa wore her finest gown for the occasion: pale blue cotton with silk embroidery on the sleeves, and her mother had styled her hair in a very elegant northern style.

"Do you think so? I want to look my best for the king and queen." The younger girl blushed prettily, and Sylvia knew it wasn't just her family the auburn haired girl wanted to look her best for. Southern knights would be with her family's caravan, full of gallantry, and soft, sweet words and clad in the finest armour gold could buy. Southern knights seemed to be what the bards wrote about, and what little girls like Sansa dreamed of. She hoped some knights from the Reach were coming; from what she remembered, they were the most fashionable and beautiful of knights in all the seven kingdoms. Sansa would like that.

"Yes, you look lovely. How do I look? I fear the yellow is too glaring." Sylvia asked, clenching her fingers around her skirt. The girl knew very well she looked beautiful; the gown fit the curves of her hips and breasts delightfully and the yellow suited her Baratheon colouring. Sylvia simply liked to hear those words of praise from anyone who would offer them.

"You look beautiful Sylvia; your gown is very pretty. I'm sure the king will love it." Sansa replied, gently tugging on the skirt of the princess' yellow dress in a friendly manner. Sylvia hoped Sansa was right. The princess had ordered the dress to be made the day the raven came from the Capitol, telling that the king and his royal convoy would be coming to Winterfell to celebrate her wedding to Robb. The onyx haired girl wanted to stand out from the others in Winterfell, apart from the grey, dim colours of the north, and her golden yellow dress assured that she did. She hoped her father approved of it; it was in their houses' colours after all.

"Thank you, Sansa." Sylvia smiled with pleasure, smoothing out the imagined wrinkles on her bodice. "Where's Arya? I haven't seen her since this morning." That seemed to be the one question everyone had asked at least once in a time. Arya, the little wildling, was supposed to keep to her sister all day, to stay out of trouble and to keep tidy for the day, but anyone who _knew_ the child, should not be so surprised when she didn't do as she was told.

Sansa gave a careless shrug. "I don't know. Probably getting her dress dirty again and getting sticks and mud in her hair. Mother will be wroth." There was a superior edge to the young girl's voice, but Sylvia didn't take note of it. If the little girl acted as a lady rather than a little beast, then there would be no reason for the girls of the castle to talk about Arya behind her back.

Sylvia nodded. "Well if she does get all messy, I hope she doesn't come to the greeting _at all_. I don't want her to ruin it." The princess said ardently. Four years since she saw her family, and if Arya ruined it with her silliness, if her family got the wrong impression of the Starks because of her, Sylvia wouldn't speak to her again until flowers bloomed in the moors of Winterfell. Any other day, Sylvia wouldn't care. But today was special. 

Sansa nodded in agreement. A beat of silence and then: "Are you nervous? About seeing your family again?" Sansa asked.

Sylvia thought for just a moment, but then replied: "No not at all. They're my family; I imagine they'll be just as happy to see me as I am to see them." The princess smiled brightly at her friend and took her hand. "Come on, Sansa dear. We simply must steal a lemon cake or two before the greeting. Southerners enjoy sweet things, you know. So the lemon cakes will be the first to go from the kitchens." Sylvia pulled her soon to be good-sister through the door. As they skipped their way down the corridor, Ser Fredrik trailing behind, the princess called out, _"I'm sure Ser Fredrik won't tell on us!"_

The old former hedge knight huffed a quiet laugh to himself. He hadn't seen her this giddy in quite a long time.

* * *

The courtyard at Winterfell's gate was filled up with people, the smallest to the highest, all dressed in their finest garb to receive the king and his royal company. Even the boys had to shave their beards and cut their hair. The king was not so far off, the thundering beat of over a hundred horses could be felt though the ground.

Just as they had four years before, when Winterfell received the princess, the Starks stood in a neat line, with Lord Eddard that the center, his lady wife to the left with their youngest child, and the rest of their children to his right, oldest to youngest. But this time, beside Robb, stood his wife-to-be, Sylvia Baratheon. The only reason she did not stand behind the noble family with Jon and the Greyjoy lad, was because of her rank and title, and because it was _her_ family coming to Winterfell.

Sylvia could feel the sweat on her palms as the steady beat of horse hooves grew closer; her belly began to feel all twisted and squirmy. It wasn't as though she dreaded her family's arrival; in fact she rather looked forward to it. But there was one boy she could go without seeing for a thousand years if she lived that long: Joffrey.

He would be coming with the convoy, the awful little boy. The last time she'd seen him, he was a round cheeked little boy of nine, and now he was thirteen, nearly fourteen. But in her heart, she feared him to be the same, malicious little torment he was when she'd kissed him farewell in the Throne Room. She worried what his sharp tongue and spiteful ways would do to the bit of happiness she found in the frozen north. Would he open his fat mouth and talk about what the lords and ladies of the south called her in secret? Or would he simply be miserable with the Starks as he always had been with everyone else? Would Joffrey ruin everything that she had grown for herself? The thought was horrifying.

At the corner of his eye, Robb saw his betrothed fidget under her cloak, feet shuffling nervously, blue eyes darting about. Her family's arrival had been all she could talk about the last few weeks, and she brought them up more and more as the day grew closer. She would go on about how good it would be to see her mother and father, how wonderful it would be to meet her littlest brother for the first time before she was married, and how much her little sister would adore Sansa and the glass gardens and how she would show Tommen the godswood and the hot springs. And yet she looked even more nervous than she had the day she arrived in Winterfell.

Boldly, he took her hand, warm and small, in his. Gods he loved touching her. She was so beautiful and sweet and warm as the southern sun, and even in the cold, she shined as bright as anything he knew. His Sylvia looked every bit a southerner in her golden yellow dress. The morning before, she'd modeled it to him in the privacy of a corridor, the curves and dips and swells of her body made even more delightful by the gown. Had her sworn shield not been just a few feet off, he would have pressed her against a wall, and kissed her until they were both breathless. When she saw the want in his eyes, she smiled and said her dress was not for him.

For the last year, they had been careful, never showing too much affection in public so that no one knew the things they did in private. Sylvia's maidenhead remained intact; it would be foolish and dishonourable to take it away before they were married so they had never gone too far. But he would be lying if he said they hadn't done... _things_.

He blushed. Robb was not ashamed of doing those things with Sylvia, especially since they had been so warm and sweet and intoxicating; but if people knew he they had gone as far that he knew what her breasts felt and looked like, and that she had more than once touched his bare back, making him shiver in her arms, Sylvia's honor would be in shreds and they would say he had none at all. Those warm moments in secret had been well worth the risk though, and since Sylvia often initiated these stolen moments, he knew she relished in them too.

Sylvia turned her head towards him and smiled. She gave his hand a squeeze. It was sweet to know he was there, but would he be as sweet while her repulsive brother was there in the castle? She did not get the chance to ponder the question as Arya ran across the yard, her septa hot on her heels, towards the Stark family line.

_Well, at least she's not all filthy and messy,_ thought Sylvia with a bit of relief. Arya's dress and hair were intact, but by the redness of her face, and the purple of her septa's, they all knew whatever the girl had been doing was not ladylike.

Sansa almost rolled her eyes as Arya took her place between her and Bran, but she was far too gentle mannered to do that. Septa Mordane quietly took her place with the stewards, septa Maesa and Maester Luwin. The elder girl had had to put up with her sister's silliness ever since Arya ripped off her dress at two in favour of running about naked. How had they come from the same woman? They were nothing alike!

_Gods_ , Sylvia prayed, _please let that be it from her, don't let her open her mouth and speak, please don't_. She didn't want her family to think all the Starks were as brazen and impudent as Arya, that they were all wild beasts with no control and that she had become one herself. It would shame her to know they thought as such.

"Oh, Arya," breathed Lady Stark. "Sansa you were supposed to keep her near." The lady hissed.

"I _tried_ , she ran away too fast." The affronted twelve year old hissed back. She heard Theon stifle a laugh.

"Wonder where she was this time," Robb mused impishly to himself. She could practically _hear_ Jon and Theon smirking behind them. Sylvia was too nervous to even muster a grin.

Although troublesome, the little wildling child proved to have impeccable timing, as not even a moment later, men in armour that was too grand to be northern, came riding through the gates. Sylvia squeezed Robb's hand once again.

She looked for the king, her father, but only saw guards in armour. They seemed smaller, less intimidating than they once were. For a moment, a flash of fear went through her, wondering if Robert had changed his mind about seeing her married. Had he? Was he still in the Red Keep knocking back cup after cup of wine? Had he chosen _that_ , over his _daughter's_ wedding?! That would be very cruel and she would _never_ forgive her father for letting her get her hopes up and then just—

Just then another, much rounder man rode in, wearing no armour or helm, but leathers and cottons and silks, all under a warm cloak lined with black bear fur.

For a long moment, Sylvia just stared at the man. She knew him to be her father, she would know him anywhere. She could not forget that face of his, nor his blue eyes and black hair which matched hers, but by all the gods, he had _changed_. He had gotten fatter, was the first thing she could devise. His face was rounder and redder since she last saw it, his belly peeking out from the slit of his thick cloak. His black, wiry hair now had the odd grey amongst the inky strands and somehow he looked sterner. Father had never been a small man, but she had never seen him that...large before.

The princess only had a moment to study her father, before she felt the cold rush against her skin where Robb released her hand. At once she knelt beside him – the others around her already on their knees – one knee drawn up, the other on the ground, her head bowed in respect. Her long black hair fell around her face. Though he was her father, he was also her king, and even a king's daughter had to bow.

She could hear the wet crunch of gravel beneath the hooves of the horses, their whinnies and snorts, and the creak of the litter that carried ladies to delicate for horseback into the courtyard. Small feet struck down on the ground, pattering about urgently. She heard the bangle of the bridle and then two larger feet, belonging to a heavier man, stomp down on the rocks and mud. Sylvia stifled a bright smile when she heard those feet begin walking towards their line. Closer and closer her father came, until she was almost sure she could smell his familiar scent, wine and meat and sweat, on the wind.

She didn't see it, but when her father gave his approval to Lord Eddard for them all to stand, they followed without a word. It suddenly struck her how much power her father had – he could ask them to jump up and down and grovel at his feet and they would have to do it because he was the king. But he didn't do anything silly like that. Her father was a great king.

As Sylvia rose, her bright, eager eyes flashed up to her father's form, hoping he would be looking at her with approval, smiling back at her before enveloping her in a hug many years overdue. Or at least turning his head looking _for_ her, but he wasn't. He wasn't even looking about. No his eyes stared unwaveringly at Lord Eddard. The princess frowned.

"Your Grace," Lord Eddard bowed a little. King Robert tilted his head a little, as if expecting more.

A moment of awkwardness filled the silent air. And then, "You've got fat." The gruff, and oh so serious remark from her father would have made Sylvia giggle from the ridiculousness of it, if she was not so confused that her father didn't even acknowledge her existence. They had not seen each other for _four_ years, and she was about to be married and locked away to the north forever...shouldn't he be swarming her with attention? Giving her praise? _Yes_ , Sylvia thought, _he should be!_ _I am his first born, and I am the one getting married, and even Lord Eddard – one of the most serious men in the world – coddles his daughters on their name-days._

Name-days happen every year. You only get married _once._

To be fair, she knew, he mayhaps didn't recognise her. She had grown breasts and hips and had gotten taller, so maybe he didn't realise she was there in front of him. But who else would be wearing a Baratheon gold dress, standing next to Robb? Which of the Stark girls had black hair? Even if he didn't see her, shouldn't' he be asking for her? Wasn't that what fathers did when they saw their child for the first time after a long while, embrace them? But then again, her father had never been an affectionate man.

Lord Eddard gave a sly nod down to the king's distended belly, and both broke out into joyful laughter. As the two men embraced after seven years of being apart, Sylvia couldn't help but feel envious of Robb's father. He got the attention from Robert she craved so badly.

"Cat!" Robert exclaimed gruffly at Lady Catelyn, pulling her into a hug as well. He tussled little Rickon's hair and turned back to Lord Eddard to exchange a few words. Sylvia heard none of it. Instead she looked away, silently growing more and more frustrated as each moment passed by.

This was not the welcome she had imagined _at all._

* * *

Queen Cersei stepped out of the litter last, after her ladies and handmaidens, and out into the frozen courtyard of Winterfell. She flinched. Gods, what kind of cold waste did Robert condemn their daughter to? Why couldn't he have just married her to one of Kevan's sons, or Aunt Genna's, at the least? At least then she would have lived her life in the west, where it was warm, and safe.

She hardly listened as Robert greeted the northerner, some grim looking man, with enough children to earn a hound's praise. Instead, she held back a moment and let Robert say his words. Out of instinct, she looked for her brother, her beautiful golden brother, and when she found him in the crowds, standing by his horse in his armour and white cape, just a few paces beside her husband's horse, she felt a tug of want in her belly. She wanted to be as close to him as possible, have him surround her, comfort her, bring her the peace no one else could.

She wondered if Sylvia would have felt this for Steffon had he lived. Perhaps then, she could have convinced Robert to wait to wed them off, and when he died, make it so the twins were wed to each other, as the Targaryens had done for centuries. But Steffon was gone, and Sylvia's maidenhead would be Robb Stark's to claim. There was not use in being bitter over it. 

The lioness looked away from her twin. No one could ever know of their love; not even her and Jaime's children. Not ever and if anyone did find out, she would kill them. She'd lost Steffon, and she'd die before letting another of her children fall before her.

The courtyard was filled to the brim with people, and most of them were men and women of the Stark's household. Most of the royal convoy had not even made it past the gates of Winterfell. Many lords and ladies had accompanied their party, picked up along their journey north.

A handful of Storm's End lords marched with them to honor the king, and theirs was the largest group that came with them. Lord Cafferen and his young sons, Lord Errol with his fat wife and babes, Ser Cortnay Penrose who had come in the place of his sick and ailing father, and softheaded Lord Fell with his wife and daughters. Renly Baratheon had also come with them, the simple minded little girl. Cersei had never liked him. Stannis had decided to remain in the Capitol for whatever reason. Would that Renly had remained there as well.

Mace Tyrell, his crippled son Willas and his fair faced son Ser Loras had come too, with a few Redwyne and Hightower squires trailing along behind them. Of course a few Frey weasels would come, old Walder Frey had enough children that they were almost everywhere in the kingdoms, attending every event in the hopes of making friends with the right people. Edmure Tully, brother of Catelyn Stark, hadn't come, their father was sick and so Blackfish Tully had come, representing both the Arryn's and Tully's, along with men and boys from houses Mallister, Blackwood and Piper.

None of the Martell's had come to attend the wedding, claiming one of their family members had come down with some fever and none would travel whilst they were on death's doorstep. Everyone knew it was a lie, but Cersei was glad they were not there. They called themselves suns but really, they were snakes hiding in the grass.

Finally, her uncle Kevan Lannister, and his sons Lancel and Willem rode with them, as well as her cousin Tyrek and her grotesque little brother, the Imp. Gods knew he was probably whoring somewhere and disgracing their name further. Lords, ladies and lesser knights from houses Brax, Swyft and Westerling came with her family's party.

All together, over three hundred southerners had come to attend Princess Sylvia and young Lord Robb's wedding. It would be the grandest wedding Winterfell had hosted in recent memory, so she was told. 

Cersei looked across the crowd for her daughter, hoping that despite the years apart, she would know what she looked like. In King's Landing, she'd wondered often about her eldest daughter. How had Sylvia grown? Was she clever or still as strange as she was when she left her? Was she beautiful or gangly, graceful or clumsy? Was she gentle and proper as Myrcella, or as timid and sweet as Tommen? She knew she wouldn't be like Joff, the girl was too meek for that. Sylvia followed orders, but never made them...or did she give orders now? Cersei knew none of it, not a thing, not a scrap...not anymore. All she had left of her child was an unbreakable bond with her, and the memory of the love that once engulfed her whole, before the pain of loss scarred and distanced it forever.

The queen despised her _royal_ husband for giving their daughter to some cold strangers in the snow, kin to his beloved rotted corpse, Lyanna. Robert had sold Sylvia to the Starks just to spite her, she was sure of it. This betrothal was a means to hurt her further, by marrying her child to the family of one of the ghosts who haunted her marriage. And it worked. It hurt her, not that she'd ever let him know it. Her lecherous, drunken husband had seen too many of her tears already, she wouldn't let him see anymore.

Stranger's faces with bleak, ugly clothing greeted her when she emerged from her litter. But yet, Syliva knew these faces better than her own family's by now. That stung. What the queen feared more than anything, was finding out that she had lost her firstborn daughter to these people, much like she had lost Robert, if it could be said she _ever_ had him at all.

Sylvia was _hers_ ; she had carried her in her belly, felt her and her brother kick and move. She brought her forth with blood and pain, and nursed her from her breast for however brief a time. She was due more love and trust than the Starks from Sylvia. Cersei had lost Steffon, her sweet boy, very long ago to a cause which she could not control. She would couldn't loose Sylvia, not when she could keep her, at least even at arm's length.

Cersei stepped forward a second later, eyes still searching the crowd, almost thinking Sylvia would still be the tiny little eleven year old she was when she left her, not a woman grown and about to be wed.

At once bright yellow caught her eye, and Cersei saw her. Robert was not looking at her, not even after all these years, the bastard, but as the queen glided forward with perfect grace, Sylvia came into view from behind one of the kingsguard's horses. For a moment, the queen could not think. All she could do was take in the detail of her face, the same, yet so different.

Her hair had gotten longer; so long that she could tell when it was perfectly down the tips would kiss the tops of her hips. It was the same deep, night black Robert's had been when she first wed him. Cersei felt her gut clench. She should have been born with golden hair. Her little black haired doe had gotten taller, her figure much more rounded than it was as a child (thank the gods); her features had matured in her time away, as well, cheekbones more defined, nose longer, cheeks a little less full and round...she had grown so much. She wasn't a little girl anymore.

That was her daughter, her first, daughter. Cersei wanted to rush up to her and hold her to her breast, and never let go again, but at the same time, she wanted to turn around and retreat back to King's Landing to be with her other children. _Our children will be safer when she is gone and married._ Jaime's words from long ago still held that heavy truth.

But how would Steffon look, she wondered absently as she took in her daughter's fine face, ink black hair and blue eyes. Would they have the same face with only the tiny differences of a man and woman? Would they have been like her and Jaime? Would things be just the same as they are now? Would Robert love her? Endless, painful questions she would never know the answer to, reemerged forefront in her mind, long after she'd put them at rest. All from seeing Sylvia again. Gods give her strength.

As she approached closer, and tore her eyes away from Sylvia, it was only then she realized the distressed look on her child's face.

* * *

Sylvia's hard blue eyes snapped back up to her father as he turned to Robb. He looked even more different than he had far afar. Robert was so close now, she could smell the sour smell of wine on him, and see the lines on his face. Her heart beat hard in her breast, the excitement of seeing her father once again was still fresh, even though she was a bit put off by his aloofness. The smile returned to her face, bright and eager and wanting to please, but still his eyes never strayed to her. Robb stared back at her father, jaw set, back straight, looking every bit the proud lord he would one day be. Her heart fluttered with pride for her betrothed.

"You must be Robb." Father grunted out, tightly clutching Robb's hand in what she assumed was to be an intimidating manner. Robb didn't even flinch. "How old are you, boy?"

" _Where's the Imp?"_ Arya asked with badly hidden discreetness.

" _Would you shut up?"_ Sansa hissed at her, saving Sylvia the trouble.

"Six-and-ten, your Grace," Robb replied. He hated that, being called boy. Sylvia knew he did. That utterance – made in either jest or as a statement, simple and true– made Robb's ears burn with annoyance as though he had been called a foul name. It sparked a need to prove _everyone_ he wasn't a boy, but a man. But Robb _was_ green, he was a boy; anyone with age worn eyes could see he was, young and foolish and filled with the need to be respected and loved. He was just a boy who only played a being a man.

The king grunted. "I remember being that age; is my daughter still honest, boy?" Now Sylvia wished with everything she had, that she hadn't been acknowledged at all, at least not by her overbold father, who asked such questions. She heard people, lords and their sons, knights and squires, laugh across the vast yard.

" _Oh, there's Jaime Lannister, the queen's twin! He's the greatest swordsman in the kingdoms, you know?_ _ **And**_ _he's Sylvia's uncle."_ Arya chripped again, not even noticing her brother's distress.

" _Would you_ _ **please**_ _, shut up?"_ Sansa hissed at her again.

Robb faltered. His eyes widened at the implication, and for a moment, he was terrified one of the servants had found out about the intimate things he and Sylvia did, and had somehow gotten word to her father. Robert stared at him, his stern face suddenly making Robb uncomfortable. He stifled the urge to look at Sylvia, knowing her face would be as red his, but he couldn't take comfort from her in front of her father. A man has to stand on his own, at least by day. Robb opened his mouth to reply, but his lord father beat him to it.

"Stop torturing the poor boy. He's to be your goodson in just a few days." Sylvia loved Lord Eddard dearly then. "To question my son and your daughter's honour so publically is demeaning."

Her father broke into laughter, deep and jovial. He clapped Robb on the shoulder. "Peace, Ned." Robert tittered though his mirth. He turned to Robb again, delight still shining in his eyes. "Just remember, I can still swing a hammer, boy." Robb smiled back at the king's good-natured threat, giving not the barest hint that there was any discomfort behind it.

Then Robert turned to Sylvia. Her father's eyes narrowed slightly and lost some of their amusement, but she knew he was only studying her. His stare was so intense she wanted to shrink under it. Sylvia didn't know what she should do, or if there was anything _to_ do. Father was a difficult man to read: sometimes he would be pleased by what she did or said, but other times, when she said or did things she thought would please him, he would respond negatively, hurting her feelings and keeping her cautious around him until the next time he was happy with her. But a princess never stumbles in front of her people, septa Bryda had taught her, they take whatever surprise they are given with grace and dignity.

"Hello father," she curtsied, making sure to be as straight and go as deeply as she could. When she rose, Robert was watching her differently – less contemplative, and more warmly. His face was still not as kind as it had been when he greeted Lord Stark, though.

"Sylvia," the king grinned as he lifted a large meaty hand and rested it on her shoulder. She smiled brightly back at her father. "You've grown, child." Yes, finally he would give her notice, and affection. He would speak of how much she had grown and how proud he was of her, and how she would make a good wife and lady of the north and—

"We'll have words later." Her father lifted his big warm hand. He turned to Lord Eddard, his face hardening. "Ned, take me to your crypts, I want to pay my respects." Sylvia made to hide her surprise, but it was impossible after so sudden a dismissal.

"We've been riding for a month, my love," the queen said tightly. Sylvia looked up at her mother, joy coming once again at seeing her. "Surely the dead can wait." It wasn't so surprising that he would leave her alone to visit that corpses' tomb, but even after years of disappointment, cruel words and even crueler actions, it was still as sharp an embarrassment as it was the first time.

The king ignored his queen, and called once again, "Ned!" before turning away and stalking towards the entrance to the black crypts under Winterfell's castle. Lord Eddard followed a brief moment later.

The princess looked up at her mother, and smiled when the queen looked back at her. The tight line of Cersei's lips twitched a little. The queen turned and strode to her estranged daughter, her face the perfect mask of deception. She had been fooling people for years, played the blushing bride, the doting wife, the kind, stupid queen...now she played the mother, happily meeting her child once again. It was one of the easier fronts to put up, because there was some truth to the lie.

"Sylvia, my darling." Cersei greeted, her smooth voice making Sylvia smile brighter. At least her mother was very happy to see her. As the queen and her daughter studied one another, Lady Catelyn said hello to her uncle Blackfish, and his party, ushering stewards forward to show them their chambers.

"Mother," once again Sylvia curtsied. When she rose, Cersei stepped closer and took her daughter's gloved hands in her own. This was very strange. It was never this hard with her other children, with Joff. Queen Cersei loved all her children – fiercely, unendingly, without question and gods strike down any man who questioned that– but all in different ways. Loving Sylvia was entirely different from loving Joff because loving _him_ didn't hurt, it didn't feel like betraying Jaime for her bastard husband. But she loved Sylvia anyway.

"You _have_ grown, my sweet." Cersei commented. She leaned forward and pressed her lips against her daughter's brow quickly. "What a lovely dress – Baratheon gold...you did not think to add a bit of crimson?" Sylvia's smile faded.

"N-no, mother." she replied slowly. Truly she hadn't. Baratheon was her sigil, not a lion. Why would she wear her mother's colours?

Cersei noted it for later. "It is gorgeous, Sylvia, such beautiful fabric. A fine choice for today." Sylvia's smile returned. "Come, we have much to discuss. Show me to my quarters, and we'll talk."

Sylvia nodded and turned to show her mother to her rooms, lifting her skirts a little as she walked through the Stark's household, the crowd of them parting to make way for the two royals. After they passed the arch leading into the Guest House, she asked, "Mother, where is Myrcella and Tommen? I would very much like to see them."

Cersei paused only a moment before replying, her tone gentle and kind, but with a hint of something else beneath it. " _Joffrey_ , Myrcella and Tommen remained in the Capitol. I didn't want them to travel the roads. It's too dangerous for children, and it's too long a journey for Tommen. He's just a babe."

Sylvia's heart sunk down to her belly. Then as the reality of her mother's words really struck her, her heart sunk down past her knees and onto the floor. But she hid it in pleasant smiles and sweet words. 


	6. The Wedding, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I, Eddard of House Stark, Warden of the North, do see these two hearts bound together in the sight of the Old Gods, and the noble men of the north."
> 
> Together, they spoke the words they practiced in private may times before.
> 
> "Before the eyes of my gods, and my kin, I swear my love to you for now and always. I promise to give you children and to be true and faithful to you all my days. I vow to never part from you, and from this moment, until my last, I will love you. With this kiss I pledge my love."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is underage smut at the end of this chapter. characters are very hormonal 15/16 year old teenagers.

**Chapter 3: The Wedding Part 2**

_A bear there was, a bear, a bear!_ __  
_All black and brown and covered with hair!_ __  
_Oh, come, they said, oh come to the fair!_ __  
_The fair? Said he, but I'm a bear!_ _  
_ _All black, and brown, and covered with hair!_

Bards didn't stay long in Winterfell, most finding it too cold and others moving on for better prospects in the south.

But for their wedding, seven had come to Winterfell on their own, and another six came with her family's party, looking for gold and looking for purchase. It was a rare treat that singers came, and when they did, Sylvia listened happily to the songs they sang from the faraway places they'd been. It reminded her of the Capitol, where the court had never lacked for any singers or fools, and it was nice to have some new entertainment in the castle.

These bards did not croon any tales of valiant and heroic deeds or funny little incidents between lords and ladies. No, tonight, all the songs were love songs, sung soft and sweet, because it was Robb Stark and Sylvia Baratheon's wedding day, a long anticipated union between the two prestigious houses, one that called for nothing less than all the extravagance the north could ever offer, paid for by her family, as was the custom.

The godswood was such a sight. Lanterns were hung up in the trees, an old custom of the northerners to ward off evil spirits a thousand years old from the Long Night. The Great Hall was decorated with evergreen branches and blue winter roses, bringing a bit of colour to the dreary castle. The cooks had prepared a fine meal of boar stuffed with roasted onions and garlic, venison stewed in buttered carrots, beets, celery, and wine, roasted chicken with garlic and mushrooms, and roasted wild turkey, steaming in hot juices. The long tables were covered with mashed turnips, pigeon pies, pumpkin soups, roasted vegetables and countless cups of wine and ale and mead—enough to feed every lord and their men who had come to Winterfell to celebrate.

As the cooks slaved away in the kitchens, Sylvia got ready with the assistance of her mother, Lady Catelyn, Sansa and (to a lesser extent) Arya. Today, Sylvia was happy. She was about to be married to a good, kind-hearted man who she believed in and adored, and even though the north wouldn't have been her first choice – _if she had one_ – she couldn't imagine herself anywhere else. But instead of Myrcella helping her get ready, instead of her own _sister_ asking for details of the wedding night in the morning, she only had Robb's sisters. They were her friends, but they were not her blood, she hadn't known them as long as her golden haired little sister. She didn't know Tommen, but he was still her brother. She wished they were both here with her. Not Joffrey though. Joffrey could bugger himself with a mace.

The elder of the Stark sisters was all aflutter around the queen, gentle compliments coming from her to be received with kind warmth from Cersei that no one realised was feigned. The younger girl was polite, but did not speak more than she had to knowing if she opened her mouth, she would disrespect the queen and mother would _not_ be pleased.

Sylvia looked down at herself, at her dress. It was ivory lace with pearls and silk, a red gem gleaming beautifully at the center of the neckline. It was the perfect dress...for a southern girl. She was a southern girl, born and raised in the Capitol, a princess; but she was a northern bride, marrying a northman. Shouldn't she wear something more...appropriate? She and Catelyn had overseen the making of her dress, simple, warm and elegant; she had thought it was perfect. It had had cotton underskirts, and a silk overdress, embroidered with light blue and dark green flowers on the bust and sleeves. She would have worn a dark blue under bust and the neckline had plunged deep to the tops of her breasts and the clips which would hold her maiden's cloak were to be silver stag's antlers. Simple, but the north was a simple, untwisted place so it fit.

But the moment her mother arrived and she set eyes on the northern style gown her daughter would wear on her wedding day, she presented another dress entirely. "You're a princess," she had said, laying the delicate gown on her bed. "Everyone expects nothing but the best of you. You don't want to marry your Stark boy looking plain and common, do you? A princess must always look her finest, and this dress is far finer on you than the other."

It was such a beautiful dress: ivory silk with a flowery brocade. It closed in the front like her dressing gown, tied with a long red satin ribbon. The collar was stitched with a delicate design of Dornish lace and the sleeves were slit open from the wrist to the curve of her shoulder, exposing her arm to the cold air. Mother had had it made for her, it was a gift...and it would probably be years and years before she ever wore anything so elaborate again. It would make mother happy to see her wear it. So Sylvia put her northern dress aside, and donned the silk and lace gown Cersei had brought her. She felt cold standing in it.

"Do I look like a bride?" she asked, looking at Cersei in the mirror. It was the prettiest, most elaborate thing she'd worn since leaving King's Landing; the northerners would call it impractical, maybe even provocative, but Robb would think it beautiful on her.

Her mother smiled at her and nodded, clasping her hands together in front of her gown. She was beautiful, Sylvia thought, dressed in a light blue silk dress with golden thread designing a beautiful pattern onto the fabric, a heavy fox fur pelt draped around her shoulders to shield the queen from the cold.

Cersei regarded her daughter carefully. She had kept true to her promise, she came to see her wed, something she now regretted. It hurt to see her child again, only to give her away to a boy she barely knew. What good was it to get reattached to her if Cersei couldn't take her back? She had wanted to remain in King's Landing, not wanting to leave her children and refusing to bring them north, but people would talk if she wasn't in attendance to her eldest child's wedding, and Sylvia would be hurt as well.

The last time she saw Sylvia, she had been eleven, small and frightened, holding back tears as she said goodbye. Now, she was fifteen, a woman, a bride blushing in her wedding dress, all smiles and happiness at the new journey she was about to begin. This girl was more a stranger.

Cersei used to have a daughter with black hair, a child that talked at nothing and sang songs she made up, and ran away from her septa and knight whenever she could, caring nothing of the fear she'd sparked in her absence...but she had grown up without her, and now Cersei didn't know if she _had_ a black haired daughter anymore. Could this black haired girl, this stranger daughter of hers, be the Stark's creature? Could she pose a threat to her and her golden lion cubs? Would she one day have to choose between her black haired daughter, and her golden haired children? The queen banished the thought from mind. Even though her daughter would belong to the Stark's, Sylvia would never betray her.

The queen watched carefully as Sylvia fussed over every little wrinkle in her gown. At first she hadn't been very enthusiastic about the gown, but that quickly changed. She knew her mother was right.

For a moment, just a brief instant, the lioness remembered the day she had been in Sylvia's place: eager, half in love with an idea, hopeful...foolish, young, and _stupid_. The tender spot in her heart for her eldest ached a little, proving that even through the distance of time and the unfamiliarity of years spent apart, the love was still there. With it came the worry for her child's wellbeing. The queen wished she could tell her daughter that whatever she felt for the Stark boy wasn't love—that she didn't even know what it _was,_ what it _meant_ to love someone—she wanted to tell Sylvia to guard herself from the disappointment this boy would bring her, not just in the bedroom, but outside it. But she held her tongue. Maybe Sylvia wasn't hers to protect anymore.

From behind Cersei, Sansa smiled sweetly and nodded. "You look beautiful." Sylvia's grin (which had not come off since she opened her eyes that morning) widened into a smile as she pulled at the layers of skirts under her dress, enjoying them fluttering around her legs.

"You look beautiful, Sylvia dear." Lady Catelyn complimented, coming forward to brush rest her hands on her good-daughter's shoulders. "Robb will have trouble staying up when he sees you. He's already so nervous, poor boy." Catelyn grinned. She was so very happy for her son; not only was her marrying one of the most sought after girls in the kingdoms, he actually _loved_ her as well. Many were not so fortunate to have two such sought after attributes in their matches. Would that she could make sure all her children had such opportunity.

Sylvia giggled. "I hope _I_ can stay up – I hope I can _speak_ – I'm so nervous." She wrung the crimson sash around her waist anxiously.

"You shouldn't be," Cersei interjected before Catelyn could reply. "Simple words with simple meaning is all you'll have to say. Quite uncomplicated really." Catelyn turned back to Sylvia and gave a warm smile, a little forced after the queen's words.

* * *

 

A while later, after her mother had left to do whatever she did and Lady Catelyn had gone to see over final wedding details, Sansa sat complaisantly as a maid twisted and twirled her hair into perfection. Arya fidgeted boredly by the fire, minding her mother's warnings not to dirty her dress, as Sylvia slowly twirled a winter rosebud between her fingers, frowning down at the little thing in thought.

As the maid began to bind the ends of the braids in Sansa's hair, the auburn haired girl asked, "Are you nervous...about...about the bedding?"

Sylvia halted her movements and turned to the blushing twelve year old. It was not a question she had expected, especially from Sansa, the girlish, well-bred little lady.

"No," she answered right away, running the soft, unopened petals of the rose against her cheek. "Well...maybe a little." Sylvia admitted. Many years later, it would not be the glamour of the wedding feast nor the ceremony or even the dress she wore that she would remember most, they would be small things compared to the first time she and Robb shared a bed.

Secretly, many times she had thought of it, wondered what it would be like, feeling delightfully wicked to think things that ladies supposedly never thought. When she flowered, sour septa Maesa warned her it would hurt, but what did she know? She was a septa, she had never been with a man. But Sylvia would. The idea made her feel very grown. She already liked kissing Robb, liked it when he touched and kissed her breasts and nipped at her neck, she liked having him close, and the bedding would be just as good...probably even better. Her ears were not so innocent that she didn't know what a tumbling sounded like. Theon and his women were usually quite loud.

A smile graced her lips; she stood up from the chair and skipped over to Sansa, giddy as a little girl. She grabbed the startled twelve year olds hands in hers, pulling her from the maid before she could slip the decorative comb into Sansa's auburn locks.

"But tonight, dear Sansa," Sylvia pulled her new good sister up from the chair and began to dance, moving her feet merrily underneath her skirts, twirling the surprised child slowly as she spoke, voiced dripping with happiness sweet as honey. "Tonight I will no longer be a girl. I'll be a _woman,_ a true honest woman, and enjoy all the things that that entitles." They twirled once again, this time together, laughter in Sylvia's voice. "Drink as much wine as I want at feasts; sleep next to Robb without anyone whispering about us; I'll even be able to go off alone with him without that old crone or Fredrik to accompany us. I'll be a wife, and wives are allowed to be with their husbands."

Laughter bubbled inside the two girls and they began to giggle, Arya turned around and watched from her chair with a gleeful smile.

* * *

Robert Baratheon hated ceremony, let any god, man, woman or child be witness to that. He hated the pomp; he hated the formality, and especially hated all the high born shits suckering up to him, trying to get at _his_ honey pot. He hated anything that had nothing to do with the true pleasures of life. But here he was, in the north for some over elaborate ceremony for his eldest daughter and Ned's boy. Why couldn't they just go before a septon, and be done with it?

But for once, Robert kept what was on his mind, off of his tongue. If only for the sake of his daughter. He didn't understand the need to be careful with her, he never felt like this with the other three, even Myrcella. He didn't mind much when they came to visit him, but words were few between him and his children, few and meaningless.

They held no interest for him, they were Cersei's, in look and in character. Robert had no hand in raising them, so everything they were, was because of that blonde pest Jon Arryn saw fit to curse him with. Sylvia looked like him, black haired, blue eyed, sweet and gentle natured, but she was stubborn and determined. In infant years of his marriage to that blonde pest, there had been no comparison to how he felt looking at his two, legitimate children, a boy and girl. Robert had no foolish idea that he could ever forget about Lyanna, but those two children had made him feel something he hadn't felt in so long: hope.

A man has his bastards, but he knows they can never amount to what he wants them to be, so eventually he leaves them. Then he has his true-borns, the ones he can place all his hopes and pride onto. Then over in just a week, half his true-borns were gone, _the boy no less_. That loss took almost as much of him as the loss of Lyanna. Every hope he had for his successor died that night with Steffon and Robert could never find it in him to care for another child of his, not out of carefully heeded fear that he would one day be hurt once more, mind you, but rather all the affection, joy and fatherly love had been drained from the king, left only in small fragments which sometimes swelled into hallow pits when he drank his wine.

Sylvia vaguely reminded him of what it was to be happy, because once upon a time, she had brought him so much joy. He stood by her now as she fidgeted with her dress, about to give her to the north. How time had passed so quickly. He remembered when she was just a pudgy little thing still finding her feet.

Robert liked to eat and drink and whore, he didn't much like fathering or have much affection for them, but that didn't mean he cared _nothing_ for his children...well, except for Joffrey. That boy wasn't... _right_.

Sylvia the eldest was getting married to a Stark at fifteen. She was going to have children of her own soon enough.

He remembered the time, she had been too little to remember—barely more than three years old—she had toddled around his apartments, getting into everything. Upon his orders, Cersei brought the girl to his chambers with her septa so that he may see her. His first thought at seeing his girl walking beside her septa was "when did she find her feet?" And when she saw his hammer— the same one he had used to crush Rhaegar Targaryen's breastplate in— he picked it up and held it high in the air for her to marvel at and set it down on the floor. She tried to damndest to pick up the bloody thing herself, but it never moved. When her feet began to slide on the stone floor, he took pity on her and nudged the thing with his foot, making her stumble back harmlessly on her bottom. She looked so surprised, so giddy. He could never forget her babyish scream of delight, clapping as though she had just conquered the world.

The king looked at his daughter, watching as she twisted the red sash around her waist anxiously. Yes, time had changed.

"Lady Stark says it's time, your Grace, my lady." Vayon Poole reported to them. Sylvia released a shuttering breath and linked arms with her father, both feeling a little awkward at the unfamiliar contact. Gods she felt tiny next to him.

Robert said nothing, and only patted her hand. That meant more to her than any false assurance even though she could smell the wine on him. Sylvia held her tongue—her father was a seasoned warrior so her fears of shaming herself in front of every lord in the north would make him laugh. The king turned and watched as his child fidgeted and squirmed nervously. She brushed her hair back and pulled the edges of her maiden's cloak around her further, the hair on her arms standing straight. Robert shook his head. Why had Cersei made her wear that bloody scrap of clothing? Girl must be half frozen.

"Father?"

"Hm?"

"Do I look... _adequate?_ " she asked timidly. Robert looked down at his daughter, briefly taking in her fine features, her black hair, and extravagant gown. Gods if he knew what women considered adequate! She looked good in his opinion, cold and fidgety, but she didn't look ugly.

"You look pretty, girl. Now let's get this done." With that, the two began to walk out from the trees which hid her from her intended's view, and into the dry open grassy clearing before the weirwood tree.

Tradition said the father was supposed to escort his daughter down the stairs of the sept, give her to her husband-to-be and let the septon do his work. Weddings in the north were no different in that respect, but they would not swear before some oily "godly" man as in the south, instead they would swear before the weirwood tree in Winterfell. The north kept to the old gods, and their gods lived in the forest, the ground, the rocks, the water, the air and animals. So natural and peaceful a faith never called for over extravagance or riches or some big temple. The Old Way of the north only saw fit that the boy and his bride make promises of eternal love and devotion before the heart-tree.

Sylvia's legs trembled beneath the too-thin layers of her skirt. Gathered about the godswood was every lord and noble family, who had come to Winterfell, all scattered about. Her mother, uncles and the Stark children with their mother (and even Jon Snow) stood closest to the heart-tree, before the black-watered hot spring.

Her heartbeat fast in her chest, and only beat harder when she saw Robb standing there waiting for her on the other side of the pond. He looked so handsome, his hair was cut and combed and he was shaved, which made him actually _look_ sixteen. But what really made her heart jump for joy was how happy _he_ looked. He was smiling, joy was clear as water in his beautiful river blue eyes, and he was looking at _her_ like that, no one else. Seeing Robb standing there waiting for her, calmed her some, because no matter what happened tonight, no matter what silly embarrassment she imagined herself getting into that night, none of it would matter in the end. She was going to be his wife, he would be her husband. She would be _his_ , and he would be _hers_ and they would stand by each other no matter what.

Her young heart believed such things would be so easy. They always are when things are sweet.

Her father let go of her at the edge of the pond, going to stand by her mother without so much as a second glance at her. It didn't really bother her as much as she'd thought it would. Lifting her skirts a little she walked around the black pool and joined Robb on the other side, an uncontrollable smile stretched across her face. Immediately he took his larger warm hand in hers and smiled back in earnest.

"Thank you, your highnesses, my lords and ladies, for coming." Lord Eddard began to speak, relaying words of thanks to those who had come to celebrate with them, and thanking the royals for readying such a match between their children. It was northern tradition that the head of the household direct them through the ceremony since the gods could not, until it came time to swear their vows.

The Warden of the North took a roll of cloth from his lady life and walked back around the pond to the couple, still speaking. The bride and groom faced the heart-tree's red, bleeding eyes, as Lord Eddard really began, coming to stand in front of them.

"I, Eddard of House Stark, Warden of the North, do see these two hearts bound together in the sight of the Old Gods, and the noble men of the north." Lord Eddard looked to Robb and gave a subtle nod.

Robb unfastened her maiden's cloak, his fingers fumbling a little as he flicked open the clasps, and when he pulled the new cloak in his family's colors around her shoulders. When her new cloak was in place, Robb and Sylvia lifted their still entwined fingers as Lord Eddard unravelled the bit of cloth. "I see them bound together as one, husband and wife, for this day, and all days to come to them." Lord Eddard began to tie their hands together, wrapping and twisting the strip around their hands, and then tying it gently at their wrists. "What the gods bind here together today, let no man tear asunder. Say the words." He ordered.

Lord Eddard stepped back and Robb and Sylvia turned to one another. It was almost like seeing him in an entirely different way. This was going to be the face she awoke to every morning, the one who would father her children, and take comfort from when she needed it. She took in his features, he was no longer smiling but his eyes were still bright and happy. He looked serious, prepared...ready.

What they'd had before was different from this; that had been a child's love for something new and exciting, a rebellious spice to their ever so proper worlds. But this was deeper; it was heavier and more meaningful. They could feel it in the air, in their bound hands and in their hearts. The queen had been wrong. These were not just simple words, not to Sylvia, not to Robb. Not to anyone who intended to be true to their vows.

Together, they spoke the words they practiced in private may times before.

"Before the eyes of my gods, and my kin, I swear my love to you for now and always. I promise to give you children and to be true and faithful to you all my days. I vow to never part from you, and from this moment, until my last, I will love you. With this kiss I pledge my love."

When Robb's lips touched down to hers, a cheer rose up in the godswood, but neither of them heard.

* * *

"I don't want to look at him," Sylvia murmured to Robb as her father laughed drunkenly with some fat whore in his lap. "He's gotten even more embarrassing now that he's older." She vaguely remembered his past embarrassments, but none of them hurt so much as they did now. "How could he do this on our _wedding_ day?"

Robb took her hand in his, leaning in close so no one would hear their words. "Because he's drunk, he probably doesn't know what he's doing." He was just as disgusted by her father as she, and had he been another man, Robb would have thrown him out of the Hall himself. But Robert was the _king_ , and even a drunkard king humiliating his daughter at her own wedding couldn't be thrown from the Hall.

Sylvia grimaced helplessly, looking out at the hall where dozens of merry lords and ladies drank and sang and danced. It felt as though all their eyes were on here, whispering about her drunken father and his whores. "Why couldn't he have just given us this _one_ day? Just one."

It bothered Robb a great deal to see the distress on his wife's – gods that word sounded fresh and sweet to him now – face. Would that he could throw her drunken father out of the feast himself, just to see her smile again, but he couldn't. He could only make her forget about it since it was far too early for them to retire. "Syl," he whispered to her. The young bride blinked, and pulled her eyes away from her father, turning to her husband. Her eyes were ashamed, and all he wanted to do was make it go away. "Come and dance with me."

Sylvia was a bit surprised by the sudden question that wasn't really a question, but stood with him anyway, and walked out onto the floor.

Tyrion Lannister drained the last mouthful of wine from his cup, grimacing as the sour swill made its way into his belly. The northerners had piss poor wine, he thought. But it was strong enough to make him feel warm.

The little lord looked across the Hall at the writhing bodies in the crowd, spying his _sweet_ sister and Lord Stark's lady wife at the head of the table on the dais. He noticed his niece and her new husband's disappearance from the center. For a second he wondered if they had sneaked off to consummate their marriage, but looking out on the dance floor, he knew it was not nearly so interesting. His young, onyx haired niece twirled about the floor in her husband's arms, looking much happier than she had since the feast began. It was not difficult to grasp what had her looking so upset; he could hear King Robert's drunken laughter and his vulgar remarks to the woman in his lap as good as any of them.

He could understand the impulse. If he was married to Cersei, he would be into his cups every hour of everyday too and stick his prick into every woman he came across. But not on his daughter's marriage day.

The dwarf poured himself another cup. He was happy for his niece, and wished that just for once, Robert suppressed his instincts for a night, for the daughter he never saw. Sylvia was a sweet girl, none of the malice of her mother in her heart, and she didn't deserve such shame on her wedding day.

Tyrion had been fifteen when Sylvia was born, as old as she was now. He had still been a prisoner at Casterly Rock, refused from touring the Free Cities like his cousins and instead forced to manage the sewers at the Rock. He didn't see his niece until she was three.

When he did meet her, he was dumbstruck to find she was black haired and that Jaime had nothing kind to say about the toddler. She was Robert's and not Jaime's. He would have thought that his sister would have been stupid enough to get rid of any child Robert got on her out of spite, but there was proof saying otherwise, gurgling in his face and trying to chew his fingers. Looking at Cersei's litter now, he could truly say he was relieved. Cersei got lucky with Tommen and Myrcella turning out as they did, and doubted it would ever happen again. Three out of four apples was better than half a rotten bunch.

"Enjoying the festivities, Imp?" A smirking voice chirped to his left. Tyrion turned at the voice, finding Renly Baratheon half stumbling towards him, looking mildly rumpled, from either the dancing or some brief rut with the Knight of the Flowers. Tyrion smirked to hide his ire at the comment.

"I'm enjoying my wine, my lord." He replied, lifting his cup. "I'm afraid my skills on my feet aren't half as good as my skills off them."

Renly laughed as he sat down a short ways away from him, grabbing up a cup of ale. "Oh really? I've heard of your skill and let me tell you it's not something worth boasting about."

"I am worth speaking of, though, it seems," Tyrion smirked. That jab didn't bother him as much as the first. What would Renly know of pleasing a woman? "Tell me, Lord Renly, how many women boast of your skills from here to Dorne?"

The man sobered immediately, scratching the loose laces of his doublet absently. "Plenty." He finally replied, quiet and unsure.

"Many pretty chestnut haired girls from the Reach, I imagine." Renly was quiet after that. Everyone knew Renly preferred the male form to a woman's. Everyone but Robert (although Tyrion was sure he had his suspicions) knew it, but no one dared acknowledged it. Tyrion truly didn't care what Renly liked in bed, but he would use it against the man if needed.

They sat in silence a while, drinking, picking at the remnants of the meal on the table, watching the bride and groom dance with countless lords and ladies. Tyrion wondered why Renly didn't go away and find better company, but when he spoke he realised.

"She truly is beautiful today isn't she?" Renly remarked with pure sincerity as he watched his favorite niece laugh as the Greatjon Umber pushed her around the dance floor. This was the best spot to watch her; everywhere else obscured the view, even from the dais, but here they could Sylvia Stark clearly.

"Yes she is." Tyrion agreed watching her as well. Well, at least they could agree on something.

"You know they still talk about her in the south, not as much but enough to still be heard sometimes." Renly remarked bitterly, taking another gulp of his ale. The ale made his tongue loose, and he confided in Tyrion things he had only ever bothered Loras with. 

There was a beat of silence. "Do they still call her as mad as Aerys?" Tyrion had no doubt his niece was perfectly sane, or at least saner than Joffrey. And she'd never hurt anyone with her oddities, her imaginary friends or her stories...but people high and low loved to talk about the flaws of their betters, even when they were small and defenseless. Sylvia apparently had a long established friendship with her invisible playmate when her first met her. 

Renly nodded. "She was lonely when she was little, that's all." Tyrion knew Renly favored Sylvia, they were rather close in age and Renly had played with her whenever he could, gave her presents, sweets, dresses, whatever it was she wanted. But getting what you want isn't the same as getting what you need, and Sylvia had needed companions her age-ones which wouldn't laugh at her in secret or go away after a time, and ones that were not the Starks. "It's not her fault no one ever saw fit to give her a real companion."

An idea struck the youngest Lannister. He would send his sweet niece a late wedding present when he returned to the Capitol. But for now, Tyrion took another sip of the too bitter, too strong wine.

"Curious how pompous, vile shits have the ability to speak the loudest." the little lord said. "The north suits her better than the south, anyhow." Sylvia was passed back to her husband, smiling and breathless and _happy_. "This might be the best thing Robert ever did for her." The two lords cast a look at their king, his big meaty arms wrapped around the wench in his lap. 

"Don't let the queen hear you say that." Renly replied, grabbing a chicken leg from behind him. 

* * *

Sylvia felt drunk by the end of the night, when the little ones had to go to bed, and most ladies had retired. She felt drunk on the wine, the food, the laughter, the dancing, but mostly she felt drunk on Robb. She hardly parted from him the entire night, and only did when some lord or knight pulled her away from him for a dance. He made her forget her drunken father and his fat whore, her worries about the gown she wore, and every other fear she could never put into words. She had never felt so free before.

Lord and Lady Stark's younger children had all gone to bed, but she thought she saw Arya sneaking about an hour after her bedtime. The lord and lady, as well as Jon and Theon remained with them, laughing and drinking without care. The king had retired to some whore's bed, and the queen went to hers, her twin brother following behind only to come back not long after, angry looking and heading straight for the wine. Lord Tyrion and Lord Renly remained, but Ser Loras disappeared a while ago and Ser Fredrik was whispering in some pretty serving wench's ear. That made Sylvia happy. She loved Ser Fredrik and wished for him to be happy...as long as he remained close to her. Along with that familiar lot, thirty other men and women who Sylvia hardly knew, danced and drank and sang in the Great Hall.

"BED THEM!" a man called as she and Robb completed yet another dance. The room suddenly swelled with noise again, as large rough hands pulled her away from her husband to push her into a sea of men. Sylvia looked back and briefly caught a glimpse of a flock of giggling ladies pulling her husband away, pulling at his clothes. From up on the dais, she saw Lord and Lady Stark laughing with the room. The bedding was always something everyone looked forward to at weddings.

Big meaty hands undressed her then, pulling at the finery of her dress, and she hears a tear as they pull at the delicate lace. But she doesn't care nearly as much as she thinks she should.

They spouted out crass comments about her breasts, her arse, hips and her legs; they laugh how lucky Robb is to have someone so young and pretty, and jest that perhaps Sylvia isn't the innocent little doe they think she is. As they striped her bare, Sylvia pretended she was somewhere else, in the glass gardens, or the godswood, or with Robb in their chambers. She flushed as the men touched and pinched at her naked body good-naturedly, pulling her out of the Great Hall and towards Robb's chambers. For a second she wondered what Fredrik would do if he saw them treating her this way.

"Come on, lass," one man grunts once they're there, a few paces away from Robb's chamber door. She was naked as her name-day, only the new ring around her finger spared to her. And she was _cold_.

"Lord Robb didn't have much to drink, so you're in for a _long_ night, girl." Another said wickedly. A big hand smacked her arse, making her jump forward, a squeak of protest catching in her throat.

"Get on, love. Don't make the poor boy wait any longer. His cock and balls must be bluer than ice." There was a stretch of laughter at that, and then another, when Sylvia turned to go and tried in vain to cover her breasts.

She bit her lip as she stopped at the door, suddenly realizing she would no longer be a maid when she came back out. The thought made her wonderfully excited and a little afraid. Sylvia wanted to please her Robb on their wedding night, but hadn't the slightest idea as to how. All anyone had ever told her is that a lady lies down on her back, and spreads her legs apart, and then the man puts his...thing inside her. It all sounded too impassive, so cold and detached. How could something that sounded like that, bring pleasure? It didn't sound very appealing. But she supposed to men, lovemaking must have some charms to it, because they were all mad about it, seeking it wherever they could find. Sylvia hoped it was alright, hoped it wasn't as unpleasant as her septa and mother made it sound. She hoped she was enough to keep Robb to her bed only, because the thought that he would stray to another's bed hurt her in ways she never knew could hurt.

Sylvia hurt for her mother just then – a deep ache in her chest for the woman who birthed her and a bitter anger at the man who helped conceive her - knowing the fear of this pain must be nowhere close to the real thing.

Suddenly, she heard the man on the other side of the door stir, soft, almost silent footsteps moving across the stone floor through the rushes. Her secondhand hurt and anger was lost for the night, and her own worries returned. It was true she had stole away inside his chambers a few times at night, and those visits hadn't been chaste, but they hadn't gone anywhere near where they were about to go. But she wanted to. She bit back her childish smile as best she could and pushed open the door.

A beat of warmth greeted her, and the gentle glowing light of the fire. She shivered, wishing that they had spared her a shawl or something, but all thought left her when she saw Robb. He stood before the fire, only in his smallclothes, the long muscled line of his back towards her. He turned, halting all her movements, pinning her with the intensity of his eyes.

They stood before each other, waiting with fear for the terrible word of ridicule or the poorly hidden look of distaste, but it would not come. To each other, they looked shy, nervous...their own vulnerability written across their lovers' face. It was a moment before he looked from her face and down her body, his eyes becoming heavy and looking at her in a way he never had before. She looked down at him as well, belly all aquiver with something she almost didn't understand. He wanted her, she could see it clear as day in the bulging outline of his cock pressed against his smallclothes. It wasn't the first time she'd seen that, but somehow it felt as fresh as the first time.

She flushed, a warm, eager feeling coming to life low in her belly. Hurriedly, she shut the door, and flicked the lock closed.

Robb tried not to take in the details of her naked body so she wouldn't be afraid at how badly he wanted and needed her, but the attempt was impossible. Sylvia, his wife, stood there with not a scrap of clothing obscuring his view of her. She was magnificent in the soft glow of the fire, her ample breasts resting low on her chest, a hardened brown nipple tipping each supple teat. Her hips were wide, her thighs were slender, but soft and round, and between them was a dark tuft of curls. He felt his cock harden, pressing uncomfortably against his smallclothes.

Sylvia walked forward, stifling the urge to cover her nakedness, because this was Robb, her husband. There was nothing shameful about it, she told herself, he thinks I'm beautiful. He wants me. It wasn't like he hadn't seen her breasts before. But still, she wished she had her night dress on. It wasn't that Sylvia was afraid, not about the pain, or loosing what was left of her girlhood; but this was new and uncharted, and she knew little of what to expect. No one had ever told her about the _feelings_ that came with the first night, about the excitement or the desire or the twinge of fear clawing at the back of her mind.

Before, the wedding in the early waking hours, when her mother was brushing her hair out after her bath, she had shared her bit of wisdom for the bedding. "I see the way," the queen had said as she pulled the ivory comb though her eldest child's dark locks. "You look at that boy." It was no secret as to who she spoke of.

"Like what, mother?" the princess asked innocently, truly confused.

"Like he's the knight from some silly song and you are his ladylove." The queen spoke crossly, causing her child to tilt her head down and worry her lower lip. Cersei steeled herself. She wasn't being cruel, she was telling her daughter the truth about bedding. "What did I tell you Sylvia?" she asked. Sylvia frowned blankly. Cersei almost sighed in disappointment. Joffrey never forgot a thing she told him. "Not to expect much from him."

"But I don't expect anything from him," pleaded Sylvia, turning around to look up at her mother, her face so soft and innocent, Cersei remembered just how young her child was. Cersei knew it was a lie. Young brides always expected a night of pleasure on their wedding night, only to be sharply disappointed come morning light. Cersei refused to remember when she had been such a girl.

"There is no pleasure for us, the first time, Sylvia. Remember that." She continued brushing her hair. "It is sharp and stabbing and will cause you tears. It won't last though, I promise, but don't hold any hope of pleasure. You will only be disappointed." Sylvia was surprised and a little hurt at her mother's words, and wanted desperately to speak out in Robb's defence, but she held her tongue. As she always had.

Now she stood before her husband, and all memory of those words were faded and gone.

When she was finally standing before him, he couldn't resist reaching out and touching her bare arm, running his fingers down the length of smooth, pale skin. He wanted _more_ , to touch her in places she'd never been touched before, to make her sigh and moan and whimper and call out his name they way he'd always imagined her. There was something strange and heavy between them, something that demanded attention to be paid, something that went far beyond her visits to his chambers at night. There was so much weight to this and not all of it was unpleasant.

There was no need for words – they'd spoken so many that day – so in place of words that would never put what he felt to justice, Robb leaned forward and kissed her instead. The action was so sudden it ripped a gasp from her throat, giving Robb's skillful tongue passage into her mouth. She whimpered and suddenly she was in his arms held tightly against him, her body clutched so close to his for a moment she thought she could melt into him like a candle. He was so _warm_ , so solid and good and sweet. It felt so good to be so close to him without barriers.

At once her arms wrapped around his shoulders, fingers pressing into the muscle of his back as he ran his hands up to tangle in her long hair, their lips moving fervently together, tongues twisting in a dance, hands beginning to grow bold and wander. Sylvia squealed when one of Robb's hands reached down to cub her bottom, causing her new husband to chuckle breathlessly at her. She bit his lip playfully; earning a deep groan from his mouth. Her trembling hands reached downward, eager fingers gently ghosting along the taught muscle of his stomach, ticking the hairs leading down into his smallclothes.

Suddenly struck with the urge to taste his skin, Sylvia pulled her mouth from his and moved her sweet lips to his chin and quickly to his neck. Robb panted. She trailed wet kisses down to his chest, where she dragged her blunt teeth against his quickly heating skin. He felt her hot wet tongue swipe across his skin _slowly_ , and he very nearly lost control and flung her onto the bed right then. But that would have frightened her he was certain, so he pulled her back up to him and kissed her more passionately than he'd ever had.

His Sylvia responded in kind and wormed her hands between their bodies to pull at the laces of his smallclothes, all fear forgotten and dead. Finally the blasted things were loose and so she pushed them down as far as she could. She pulled away and took a quick peek down at what she was dealing with and took in a sharp breath. She hadn't thought it would be...quite so big. And it was hard as well but when she touched him there, the skin was smooth. Robb moaned and she released a sharp breath. She wanted him desperately; the slit between her legs had begun to ache and she felt hot all over.

She felt their feet stumbling towards the bed causing her hand to fall away from him much to her chagrin and his. There would be time for that again later, she thought feverishly. When Robb's bare foot stepped on her own, she laughed at the pain and pulled Robb back down for a kiss, still giggling against his lips. This wasn't as hard as she had begun to think it would be.

The furs covering his bed are soft and cool under her back, but Robb's warm body covered hers before it could bother her. In that bed, they did things they had never dared to do before, but secretly always wondered about. He kissed her neck and breasts and belly, his slick tongue tasting the skin there and further down still. _Oh gods_ , it would be impossible _not_ to attack him every private moment from here on, she would later think. He pulled sounds from her throat she'd never knew she could make and made her hips do a funny little movement every time his tongue flicked so perfectly. Sylvia clawed at his back, and gripped his hair, with her nails running across his scalp. No one ever said that a man could do _this_ to her.

"Oh, dear gods, I love you, I love you, I love you, OH- _OHHHHH_ my sweet Robb..." She chants a dozen times just before her insides clenched and the most... _amazing_ feeling engulfed her body. Her legs twisted, her vision went spotty, her belly clenched and embarrassingly loud sounds escaped her mouth. Why had no one told her about _that?_! Dear gods, what was he doing to her? Ladies never made such noises. She hoped he did it again.

When he pulled back up to kiss her after she'd calmed some, she really _did_ attack him. Her lips smashed onto his and her arms clung to him, desperate not to let him go. She loved him more than ever, and wanted him inside her so badly, but at the same time, she wanted to touch him once again, to hear him make the noises _she_ had made and make him hunger for her like she did.

They laid back, Robb half on his side and half on top of her, his arm coming under neck to help support it, and the other feeling across her warm breasts and pinching at her nipples. She moaned into his mouth, clawing at his shoulders and then growing a bit gentler as she trailed her hands downwards again. He groaned long and low when she gripped his length, moving her nimble fingers up and down the soft skin. She smiled against his lips. How much power she had over him! Robb's finger's pinched at her nipple and then began to rub his hand down over her lower belly. Sylvia whimpered, running her hand up from the one on her belly and onto his shoulder, canting her hips up a little in the hopes he would trail his fingers lower. His deft fingers only touched her mound of black curls before he pulled back, away from her womanhood, away from her lips. He even took away her hand, grabbing her wrist and holding it still.

Frowning, she reached for him again but he stopped her, his eyes glassy and a tad embarrassed. "I...I don't want to spend...like _this_." She blushed.

It happens and there is no time to think or be afraid, because suddenly, in what felt like an instant, he was _there_ , between her legs, the hardness of his staff pressing up against that secret place, which ached for him now. Sylvia marvelled at the strange feeling of him on top of her so intimately, so passionately. He was kissing her, slower than he had before, one hand in her hair and the other under her neck with his thumb stroking the sensitive skin there. This was nothing like the cold, disinterested duty she had been told of, this was _hot_ , feverish and a great pleasure to carry out.

Then, suddenly, he paused and pulled away from her neck and just _looked_ at her. He looks at her face, her mouth pulling in deep breaths from his time between her legs, her lips red and her breasts rising and falling rapidly. He could feel her heartbeat beneath his palm like drum. And her _eyes_ , there was nothing but happiness and love there, complete trust and utter _want_. He was sure he'd never seen anything more beautiful in his life, not even when he saw her coming through the godswood in that southern gown of her mother's making. With that look in his eyes she knew it was time.

Her feet plant against the backs of his legs and her hands grip his arms as he pushes inside her. She gasps against his sweet mouth, nails digging into his arm and leaving little half-moon shapes behind. It's sharp and unexpected, wonderfully filling and terribly sudden. It hurts, quite a bit more than she'd expected, but he kisses her tenderly to keep her away from it. He doesn't even have to hear her say the words. When he slowly begins to rock against her, his head buries in her neck, his hot breath fanning against her skin, his damp curls tangled in her hand while her other runs up and down his back soothingly.

Wide eyed she stared up at the cold stones above them, gasping as he began to thrust. He groaned loudly against her neck. It didn't feel as though she'd been robbed of her innocence, as one girl had told her. She didn't grieve for her maidenhead, not when this felt so sweet and right. The feel of him inside her was beyond any comparison, and Sylvia wouldn't trade this moment for anything in the world.

Robb kissed the side of her neck, panting in her ear a moment before he found the strength to look at her without spending himself too soon. He hoped he hadn't hurt her; he had meant to remain still and keep eye-contact with her until she had calmed, but it felt too good to be inside her for that to happen. He could only make up for it later.

His sweet wife looked so radiant then, aglow and happy despite the look of amazement in her eyes. Her sweet red lips twitched into a smile that faded quickly when he pumped his hips again. He shuddered when she let out a moan. Quickly, he descended his lips onto hers and pulled back to look into her beautiful passion filled eyes.

He looked so beautiful when he's hovering above her, strong muscle corded beneath his skin, ripping with every movement. Sweat began to glisten on his brow, and on his back where her fingers dug in. It feels good for him, she thought as he moved above her, his face only inches from hers, and contorted with barely held back pleasure. When it didn't hurt so much anymore, her body tells her to move a little, and when she does he gasps and begins to move a little faster, a little harder. Her whimpers grew louder and her thighs tightened around his hips as she moved once more, earning a low growl from her sweet husband.

It didn't last for much longer; before long he buried his face in her neck again and began to tremble. She felt him groan her name loudly against her skin, his hips pushing against hers a few more times as he jerked and twitched inside her. As he kisses her neck, and murmurs that he loves her, she is certain she has never felt so at home with anyone else before, so complete and happy. This was where she belonged.

"Oh, oh Robb I love you," she breathed, stroking his beautiful auburn curls.

He pulled away and looked at her. "I love you." He replied surely. At once he pressed his lips down on hers and kissed her hard, letting everything he felt for her come though his kiss. When he pulled away, she smiles at him, sweetly, then suddenly there's a glint of sneaky curiosity in her eye. " _Where_ did you learn to do that? With your tongue?"

Her husband laughed, and said, "Theon gave me advice." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooo....yeah this was my first sex scene. I think I did pretty good....what do you think?


	7. Fade Into You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If it weren't for my children, I'd have thrown myself from the highest window in the Red Keep. They're the reason I'm alive."   
> \---

**Chapter 4 Fade Into You**

_I was the ashes, you were the ground_ __  
Under your willow, they laid me down  
There'll be no trace that one was once two,  
After I fade into you

" _Fade into You"_ by Scarlett O'Connor & Gunnar Scott

The pale fingers of light reached out to touch bare skin through the closed shudders, a gentle warmth blooming where those invisible fingers touched the sleeping lovers' skin. It was early, the servants bustling about their morning routines, but it was far too early for the nobles to be up.

From behind his wife, Robb Star twitched, slowly, almost reluctantly, becoming aware of the world. He could feel a warm body curled around his, soft bare skin pressed flush against him, hair tickling his neck and chin, and a steady _ba_ - _thump-ba-thump-ba-thump_ under his hand. _I never want to leave this bed_ , he thought – or dreamt, he could not tell which. Sleep and reality were gently warring beneath his closed eyes, one trying to coax him back into blissful oblivion, and the other heedlessly reminding him of the things which needed to be done.

Reality was slowly winning the war, and soon he became more and more aware of his surroundings, particularly of the beautiful body he held against his own. He could smell her, the scent of sex from the night before and faded oils and some other faint fragrance that made his blood sizzle. He could feel her legs entwined with his, smooth and soft, feel her limp fingers tangled with his and hear her steady breathing. He had spent one night with her, one night wherein little sleep was achieved, and now could never imagine spending another without her. He'd never felt more content, or more at home than in that moment.

Could they really have done those things? He thought with wonder. He remembered how she'd gasped, how she'd arched and whimpered and said his name like it was the only word she could remember. He remembered how _good_ it had felt - better than _anything_ he'd ever known. He knew for a fact they had consummated their marriage, but it was still a wondrous thing to realize, to have shared in something so intimate and special with the one person who he loved more than anyone.

Robb opened his eyes, blinking at the bright light streaming brokenly through his shudders. He lifted his hand from his wife's breast and rubbed at his eyes. When his vision cleared, her found her curled up against him, pressed so close, her back was against his chest, her soft bottom nestled against his manhood, and her long dark hair tangled and tickling his chest and neck. He smiled. She was so beautiful.

When he returned his hand to her hip, still bare from the night before, it suddenly struck him that soon they'd have to rouse and leave his— _their_ chambers. Couldn't day hold itself off for a little longer? With the morning light, the world would come into this little haven, stealing his wife from his arms and him from hers, and giving them new duties to attend to and people to face.

Robb softly rubbed the soft skin of her hip, slowly tailing his hands up her side, back down and over again. He wanted her all to himself today. One night together was not enough, not by half. He wanted to make her squirm and moan again, wanted to be in her again, to feel her pulse around him, see her breasts heave and her eyes become glassy with delight. He wanted to taste that unbelievable pleasure that he had found in her arms once more. Robb pressed his nose into her hair and inhaled the sweet flowery scent of her oils mingled with dried sweat. He felt his cock stir against her bottom.

"Nnng," she mumbled sleepily. He grinned and nipped at her shoulder, earning a startled squeak from a fully awake Sylvia. For a moment she was dazed, awakening in a room that was not hers, to the sudden sharp sting of Robb's teeth, and the unfamiliar sensation of being completely _bare_. Her face flamed. Oh gods, the night before had _really_ happened! She thought with an odd mix of glee and something like embarrassment. She had never felt pleasure, so sweet and tart and world shattering, before. She'd never made those sounds, never _moved_ like that, never crooned and pleaded so wantonly. She wondered if anyone outside their room had heard. Her face reddened even further, because she knew they likely had. It was tradition, after all. The world had to know the marriage was true and complete.

Robb had seemed to like the sounds she made though, judging by the way he'd lingered on the places which made her moan loudest.

"What are you _doing?"_ she demanded sleepily. He responded with dragging the blunt of his teeth across her shoulder. It tickled a little. She turned in his arms, her own curled against her chest, hiding her breasts from his eyes.

"That's not an answer," she smiled. "And you're poking _something_ into my belly." She smiled wickedly at him. "What are you thinking about?"

He grinned back at her. "All the wicked things I want to do to you."

Her smile dimmed just the tiniest bit, wondering how to answer such a blunt statement without making a fool of herself. "Really?" she smiled.

"Yes," he replied in the same rough voice he had used the night before. Her insides twitched. She shifted her hips a little to get more comfortable, but her soft skin rubbed against his cock, making Robb moan. Immediately she pulled back, thinking she'd done something wrong, but his hand rushed to her hip to keep her flush against him, his breathing a little heavy. She stared at his face in wonder, her heart pounding. _Insatiable_ , she thought, _lusty_.

"And what would you do to me?" If he was not so aroused, he'd be surprised something so bold came from her normally sweet, and almost timid, lips. They might have been more timid if they were strangers to each other, and both were grateful they had gotten to know each other before they wed, unlike so many others. They knew how to toy with each other, how to touch and tease and play, and did not shy away. Such things came when you'd spent the early years of adolescence pushed together and told and hundred times over that one day you would do this very thing. Although at first it had been a forced sort of affection, odd and strained, it had grown into something different; something special and new for two people so young and naive, both so alert to every fresh feeling in their hearts and every sensation in their bed.

Robb _attacked_ her then. He lunged and pushed her down into the furs, kissing her roughly, like a dying man clinging to something which made him feel alive. She kissed him back, sweet and timid, startled by her husband's sudden boldness. Her tongue tangled with his, hot and slick and smooth as silk. Sylvia trembled as he ran his hands up over her hips and to her breasts, feeling her small brown nipples pebble under his palm. When he pressed his hips against hers, drowning her gasp and his moan with a fierce kiss, he pulled away for a second to murmur something that almost sounded like her name.

Her fingers tentatively touched his chest, gently ghosting along the taught skin of his belly, making the muscles beneath, dance and twitch in response. Robb pulled her hand away and held it beside her head, linking his fingers with hers.

Sylvia's head was swimming, her bosom was heaving against her husband's chest and her belly was fluttering and jumping as he rubbed against her. She pulled her lips away to catch her breath, but his lips continued on, over her jaw, licking and kissing and sucking. Her fingers tangled in his auburn curls, nails gently scraping across his scalp and making him shiver. Her lips kissed the side of his face and suddenly, his earlobe was between her teeth. She felt his groan in her chest. " _I love you_ ," he said, voice harsh with desire (desire for _her_ , she thought with pleasure), the words rolling so easily off his tongue. She was helpless to do anything but whimper.

When his mouth dragged between her breasts, he released her fingers, allowing her hands to tangle in his hair as he kissed and nipped at the sensitive skin there. Her breathing was harsh, but rose up to a cry when his lips closed around one nipple, his mouth hot and wet and sweet. She hoped he did the thing with his mouth again. _How did he just_ know _how to—?_

She gasped sharply when he _sucked_ , all thought brought to an abrupt halt. Liquid began to slicken between her thighs. She gave a little whimper and tightened her hand in his beautiful curls. "Ohh, _Robb_..." She whimpered out his name so sweetly and beautifully, that Robb doubled his ministrations to hear it from her sweet lips again.

Sylvia had asked him the night before how he knew the things he did, how he knew how to bring her pleasure, and in the delirious bliss of lovemaking, he'd confessed that Theon gave him pointers about what women liked. The truth was, Theon had been very far away from his mind the night before, and he'd just fallowed what his instincts told him to do, what he'd imagined doing to her many times before. Judging by the sounds she'd made and her shy murmurs for more, he had been right to do so. 

Her hips canted up in a silent plea for more, and Robb couldn't deny her, or himself, any longer. He pulled his lips from her breast and crashed his mouth to hers once again, sliding his tongue over hers and gripping her hips so hard she thought she would bruise. When he pushed inside her again, a broken cry tore from her throat and he felt her tremble and knew he must have hurt her, but she never asked him to stop, or slow, or to be still, and it felt far too good inside her to think of stopping. Sylvia only held him tighter and clumsily rocked her hips against his, both still so new to this wonderful act. "Robb, Robb," she chanted half a hundred times, each time warming his heart with love for her. He heard himself mumbling her own name in reply, into her neck between kisses.

When they were finished, he laid his head on her damp chest, listening contently as her heart slowed to a normal rhythm. She cradled his head; her fingers tangled in his damp curls and kissed him once or twice. "Robb," she whispered like a prayer, only once as a quiet peace took them both. Gods, what he wouldn't do to hear her say it again. He'd spent inside her too quickly for his liking, but he didn't want to move away from this warm, safe place he had found within her, and cushioned against her breasts. Sylvia never voiced any complaints either, only continued to stroke his curls.

Before long, they were back asleep, warmer and happier than before.

* * *

_Knock! Knock! Knock!_

This time they both awoke with none of the gentleness as before. Robb shot up, so quickly the top of his head clipped Sylvia's jaw painfully, clacking her teeth together.

"Ow!" she shouted, a hand flying up to cup her aching chin. Robb sat up and slipped out of her, feeling the slickness of their lovemaking come against his thigh. The top of his head was throbbing from her sharp chin, but he was all too aware of the person on the other side of the door to notice. "Ow," Sylvia mumbled. "Robb, what is wro—"

_Knock! Knock! Knock!_ "M'lord? M'lady? May we come in?" Sylvia's ocean blue eyes widened in fear and looked up to meet Robb's, both freezing for one very long moment as if waiting for the other to have some notion of what to do. They were still naked as their name-day, the furs had long since been kicked down to the foot of the bed but neither had minded. Now they needed cover.

_Knock! Knock!_ "Hullo?"

At once they sprung away from each other and as Robb lurched forward to grab the crumpled up furs at their feet, Sylvia sat up and vainly tried to straighten her tangled hair. "Jus-just a moment!" she called out. Robb fell back and Sylvia quickly followed, pulling the cool cover up to just under her chin. She had the urge to hide completely, but princesses don't do such things, especially from simple castle maids. Robb pulled her close, but she wanted to pull away. The last thing she wished for was the serving girls to have something else to gossip about. Yet she made no protest.

"Come in!" Their breath was a little laboured when the serving girls (three of them—one to feed the fire, one to set down their breakfast and another to draw a hot bath), burst into the room.

The three girls stopped at the end of the bed, eyes focused on the rushes at their feet out of respect. "M'lord, m'lady." They chorused together, and then quickly set about their various chores. Robb and Sylvia watched warily as the serving girls began to scurry about, one girl setting down the tray on the table and then tidying up a bit, the mousy girl began to feed the fire which had gone out in the night, and the third girl began to fill the tub with hot water. As they worked, both Robb and Sylvia grew annoyed that their morning had been interrupted by such tedious tasks that could have been put off until they were good and ready to leave their chambers. But they were loath to bring attention to themselves, both too shy to even meet simple servant's eyes.

Sylvia blushed as one girl picked up the soiled washbasin, so very aware that the water and rag within it was pink with the blood Robb had washed her of, the night before. He'd had been so _tender_ with her after, she could almost cry.

Finally, after what felt like an endless span of time, they were done, and stood before the foot of the bed to take their leave.

"Uh-um, m'lord, Lord Stark requests your company after you've broken your fast." Said one. Robb nodded in reply.

"And m'lady, the queen has asked you visit her chambers as soon as you are... _able to_." Said another. The hidden joke in those words was obvious to the other two maids as they tried to hide their giggles. Sylvia paled. Had they been _that_ loud? She looked up to reply, but noticed the girl who'd spoken looking up, far bolder than any serving girl had a right to be. Unknowingly, the fresh young bride clenched her jaw. She didn't like the way the girl who'd spoken, boldly glanced up, stared right at her husband's bare chest and smiled as though she had a right to look.

"Leave us," Robb ordered. Sylvia glared at their retreating backs until the door slammed shut again. "You look like you want to string them up by their ankles." He smirked.

"I'm honestly considering it," she replied seriously. Her husband chuckled and kissed her forehead. _My wrathful, jealous, sweet, sweet wife,_ he thought. He hadn't been blind to the serving girl's wandering eyes, but thought nothing of it. It wasn't as though he'd ever forsake his vows for a quick rut, or that the girl didn't have any other men to lust after. No he didn't mind her looking.

"Peace, sweetheart," he murmured, pushing down the furs again to get up. "Let's have a bath. I'll ease all your tensions away." He smiled so brightly that Sylvia found herself grinning back, her brief dark mood forgotten. Robb tugged her hand and pulled her off the bed and toward the steaming copper tub.

* * *

Her daughter was all smiles when she came into her mother's guest chambers, aglow with some happiness Cersei had never known the day after her wedding to Robert.

The boy was a pup—young, too eager to have given Sylvia much enjoyment, even if he had bedded a whore or two in the past. But that smile hardly left her daughter's lips as they nibbled on their lemon cakes and sipped their hot cider. Sylvia talked gleefully about everything – from her life in Winterfell to how splendid a fighter her husband was. When the queen brought up her other children, a little of the joy left her eyes, but still, she never looked morose for long.

Cersei made no comment on the matter. Her child's happiness bothered her somehow. Most noble brides are not so cheery the night after their first bedding, voicing complains about their husband's performance (or lack of), or keeping silent but miserable all the same. Sylvia was jolly, smiling and laughing like she was the happiest girl in the world. Any mother would be glad for her child...but Cersei saw herself in her daughter, so young, so sweet, so... green. And it would hurt her.

_The happiness will not last,_ she thought. _It_ _will ebb away, bit by bit, taking parts of her with it, and then she will have nothing but bitter memories and children to take care of. And soon enough, those babes she loved will be sold off like livestock at her husband's dictation._  What will happen to her then? She wouldn't have anyone to help ease the pain of the day, (as a mother should never trouble her babes with grown-up problems), like she had Jaime. Her good-sisters and brothers might offer a kind word or two, but in the end, they were Robb Stark's siblings. And for that, she wondered about her eldest daughter's future, if joy could still come to her so easily a few years ahead.

It was impossible for her not to care. She was Sylvia's mother – she carried her for months, brought her into the world with pain and blood, and loved her the moment she saw her, and would until Cersei drew her last breath. Bitterness and distance and pain would not break the bond between them. She had long since realised this.

"You were right mother, the dress you brought _was_ better suited," Sylvia gushed. "Robb said it was the most beautiful he's ever seen me and..." as she went on, the queen took in her daughter's features, as she so often did when she was with Sylvia.

In passing moments, Cersei feared she would be like Robert, a fool, an embarrassment, a shame. These thoughts came sudden and unbidden one night after Robert had claimed his rights as her husband and king, leaving her too sore for sleep even as he snored beside her. The idea was painful and frightening—another one of _him_ in the world—and just for one small _second_ in time, she almost thought it was better her boy had died, lest he be a copy of Robert entirely. The golden haired queen immediately regretted thinking such things, because she'd have done _anything_ to get her boy back and safe and sound in her arms again. But Sylvia was not like Robert, and when the queen was embarrassed by her daughter because of her silly childhood tendencies at court, the shame was dull and faded quickly. She was just a child after all, and there was no malice behind her actions. She was too sweet, too good for that. 

Would Steffon have been the same, or would he be like Robert? The queen knew it was no good to dwell on the child she'd lost so long ago, but when she looked at Sylvia, it was hard not to think of him. They'd looked so much alike when they were babies...

Cersei had always known she was just a pawn to her father, a means to further the gain of her house, first by marrying a king and then by birthing the next one. She used to think being queen would make her happy, and it did, but not as much as it used to. The throne was just an aspiration, a tiring goal she always had to pursue, and she soon came to realize she didn't want to live  _only_ for that throne.

But her children, they gave her true purpose, something to strive for, a reason to want the throne. Cersei would see the world burn, if it meant keeping them safe and happy. Without them, she had _nothing_. So she played the game men had played for thousands of years, the game of power and deceit, and grew to love it, growing in confidence as she proved she was as smart as any man. All for them, all for her family. Everything she did was for her children. They—Sylvia, Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen—were her reason for going on.

Cersei smiled at her daughter, a true loving smile. It wasn't long after Steffon had died, when her heart was still raw with pain and despair, that she'd walked out onto her balcony, watching people scurry like ants on the ground below, and wondered what it would be like to fall through the air. Would it feel like flying? She remembered herself thinking without fear. The ledge wasn't very high and she knew she could climb over it before anyone could stop her. Everything would stop—all the hurt, and blame and fear...it would all stop. She so desperately wanted it all to _stop_.

But as she pondered the easiest way to climb over the ledge, she heard her infant daughter cry in the next room, before her wet nurse hushed her and hummed some lullaby to her babe. _Sylvia_. At once, Cersei knew she couldn't know that bit of freedom. Someone was holding her to this life, the baby girl in the next room—she _needed_ her mother, just as much as her mother _needed_ her. Cersei could not bear the thought of leaving her alone in this world, with no one to protect her the way only a mother could.

Before Joffrey was born, Sylvia had been all she had, that small little babe who brought her both joy and pain in equal measure. Sylvia had given her a reason to go on when she thought she couldn't, led her through the darkness and back into the light, and for that, the queen would always love her first born girl.

"Will Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella come visit me soon? I'd like to meet Tommen before I have my own baby." Sylvia made sure to include Joffrey, knowing it would please her mother, even though she really didn't want him to visit.

Cersei broke out of her thoughts and took a delicate sip of her cider. She did feel a bit guilty for not bringing her golden haired cubs—Sylvia had looked so crushed when she told her they had remained in the Capitol—but there were hundreds of things that could happen to them on the road, and she would never risk it. "Perhaps, my dear. But they are all so young still, especially Tommen. The king's road is no place for a growing babe. Mayhaps you should visit the Capitol." She took another sip.

The princess twisted her fingers. She didn't think it would be possible; she was married to the north now (her father's words), and there were things expected of her, meaning a baby. And soon. But Robb had never brought up the subject, so perhaps he didn't want a child so quickly either. Hope blossomed in her chest. Maybe she could spend a time in the Capitol.

She smiled and nodded to her mother. Cersei smiled back.

* * *

 

"It's so bloody cold here. How can you stand it?" Renly Baratheon grumbled to his niece, quietly wondering if his lungs could freeze solid from breathing in the icy northern air. Perhaps taking the air with Sylvia hadn’t been such a good idea.  

"It isn't so bad. It's grown on me quite a lot, uncle." But even as she said it, she could feel the cold trying to seep through her warm cottons and furs, to freeze the warm flesh hidden away. Her arm tightened around Renly’s, hoping to share a bit of warmth.  

"You've been deprived of proper sun for the last four years, Sylvia. Of course you've had to settle." The youngest Baratheon brother teased. They walked beneath the bridge that connected the armory to the Great Keep.

"I didn't settle. You're just a spoilt southern born." She gave him a little nudge, a bright smile still on her lips. She and Renly had always been close, and sometimes Sylvia would think of him as the brother she should have had. They certainly looked alike, and her uncle was only eight years her senior. Old vendors at their stalls had once or twice mistaken them for brother and sister, and they hadn’t corrected them.   

"Oh, I'm wounded, niece. I'm just a spoilt southern born to you now?" _You’re the man who asked for my favor at tourneys, the one who played with me, and promised to defend my honour should anyone dare insult me. You’re the man who teased me about my poor skill with the harp, and then offered to have it magically disappear before my next lesson._ Renly could never be just anything to Sylvia.

"I'm a northerner now." she replied easily, but as she said it, a little spark of uncertainly ignited in her belly. 

"You might have a northern name and have northern children, but your blood is warm. You can take the Baratheon from Storms End, but you can't take the storm out of the Baratheon."

Sylvia nearly rolled her eyes. "Oh please. Tell me about the Capitol. I know you know more than you're saying."

"You see? A northerner would never indulge in courtly gossip." Renly adjusted his cloak, pulling it a little closer to his body. His niece gave a laugh.

"Have you been aquatinted with Sansa? Her heart pines for the south, just as mine does." She admitted.

Her uncle was quiet a moment, before leaning his head a little closer to speak to her. “You know, it’s not too late. I can steal a horse, and we could ride south. I could hide you away in Storms End like a prince from a song, far away from the freezing wretches that stole you away in the first place.” The tone of his voice was mockingly sinister, and Sylvia laughed again.

“That’s quite alright, uncle.” She patted his hand good naturedly.

“Well then, I should have a talk with this husband of yours. Man to man. I ought to have spoken with him before you wed, but preparations and all that got the better of me. Maybe if I had told him what will befall him if he were ever to mistreat you, he would have thought twice before wedding you.”

Sylvia was not offended. Renly meant no harm, and he’d only said it as a show of protectiveness, but he was stepping a little too far. What if someone heard him threatening the heir of Winterfell? “It really isn’t necessary.”  She told him, sending a wry grin.

_Oh, but it is_ , Renly thought as they walked around to the training yard. She spied Jon and Theon among the crowd watching as two western knights circled each other in the ring, practice swords in hand. A few southern knights and squires watched with them, appraising the two on their skills and methods.   

“Who's that solemn looking lump?" Renly murmured lowly to her, his eyes set on gloomy looking Jon Snow.

"Don't play the dolt. You know that's Jon Snow." They continued walking, slower this time, listening to the sounds of sticks striking against padding.

"Lord Stark's bastard." It wasn’t a question when Renly spoke, but rather a look for confirmation.

"Yes." Renly turned his nose up, and his niece raised a brow. "Why do you look so snooty? When did you start caring who bore the bastard title?" He didn’t. In fact, one his brother’s many bastards was his ward at Storms End. He was a good lad, and Renly was a fond of the boy, but he wouldn’t insult his niece by speaking of young Edric Storm.

“I don’t.” He finally replied. “I care about you. Tell me, why does Lord Stark suffer his wife to raise her trueborn children alongside her husband’s bastard?” It was painfully obvious Lady Stark cared nothing for her husband’s son, while the rest of the Starks accepted him easily enough.  

"Jon is his.” Sylvia replied plainly. “He wouldn't leave his son behind to grow up without a father, probably living on scraps day by day. Maybe he brought him back to spare his mother the shame of having no husband. Anyway, I don't want t talk about it. It bothers poor Jon to talk about his mother." She’d tried to coax it out of him once, in her first year at Winterfell. Jon stormed away from her, and Robb didn’t speak with her for three days. To add insult, Lord Stark himself scolded her for asking such inappropriate questions that did not concern her.

"'Poor Jon'? Have you a tender spot in your heart for Winterfell's bastard, Sylvia?" Renly asked curiously.

"Of course I do. Your surprise hurts me, uncle.”

“The north really has changed you.” He muttered.

“He's a good man.” She continued, not wanting to leave the point unmade. “He brings no other dishonour on his family, apart from carrying the name Snow. He’s even spoken of joining the Night’s Watch. Very noble, really.”

“What of his brother, your husband? Is his character above reproach?”

The question threw Sylvia, and for a moment, she was quiet. “My husband is as honorable as his lord father. As kind, if not kinder as well. He is full of affection for me.”

Renly nodded. His voice was soft when he spoke. “His father is honorable to be sure, but even Lord Stark slipped and got a bastard on some southern wench. He even brought the child home to live amongst his trueborns. Is Robb Stark still like his father, niece?” The implications were not lost on her, and Sylvia felt herself bristling, but she was far too aware of the public setting to react much beyond losing her warm smile. Her arm tightened around Renly’s, and were he a slighter man, her grip might have hurt.

“You offend me, uncle.” Sylvia told him sternly, her face hard.

Renly looked away. Truly, he did not wish to hurt or upset his niece. “Forgive me. I only wish to know you will be happy here, and will never suffer your husband’s humiliations as your good-mother has.”

The girl looked down. She wanted to defend her husband’s honor and ardently reply that he’d never stray from her bed. But Renly spoke out of concern, misplaced though it was, and she couldn’t hate him for it. Her eyes strayed back to Jon across the yard, still watching the fight play out. Was his concern truly misplaced, though? The future was not certain, and surely, Lady Catelyn never thought her husband would return to her with another woman’s son in his arms.

Sylvia bit her cheek. Lord and Lady Stark had only had one night together before he went away for a year. He had not known his wife, nor had he loved her, because before then, she’d been meant for his elder brother. But Robb and Sylvia had _years_ together, they knew each other, they cared for each other, and there had never another love before they wed. _I am his, and he is mine_ , she thought.

“Robb wouldn’t do that to me,” she said softly, imagining seeing an auburn haired toddler running through the mud, the living embodiment of her husband’s betrayal. “He loves me. He isn’t likely to slip into another woman’s bed and disgrace his lady wife.”

“You know him better than I.” Renly admitted, hoping to sooth her grated nerves.

“ _Yes_ , I do.” Sylvia agreed snappishly.   

“Please forgive me, Sylvia. I meant not to offend you.”

“What did you mean, then?” she asked, looking up at him with a small frown on her face. “Surely, you knew that your words would anger me. You are no fool.”

Renly grew solemn, and for a while he was quiet. They passed through the gate, and started back towards the Great Keep. The sounds of the practice yard were starting to fade, but her uncle’s words still lingered in the air for Sylvia. “You need someone to shield you.” He finally said. Sylvia blinked, surprised by his words. “No one ever has, not properly. But I always will. I swore to champion you if anyone ever hurt you, didn’t I?” Yes, a vow made in jest, after he killed a hideous spider for her.

“You don’t need to defend me from my husband, Renly.” She told him firmly.

“But I will. You need just ride for Storms End, and I’ll shelter you as long as you wish.” Sylvia still looked less than cheery. “You are most dear to me, Sylvia. While I hope you never feel the sting of betrayal from your husband, know that I’ll always side with you.”

His niece thought on his words for a long moment, and Renly as suddenly afraid she’d tell him to sod off. But once the great oak doors leading back into the warm castle came into view, she spoke.

“I will forget this foul conversation only this one time, uncle. If you ever imply my husband is a dishonorable sort, who is likely to bring home his own baseborn child in good time, I will not speak with you until I’ve forgiven you. And my forgiveness will not come swiftly.”

Renly’s heart sunk, but he could not insist on a better offer. “I understand.”

“Now go on. Let’s forget this bloody walk and tell me about all those lords and ladies and all their vile secrets.”

* * *

 

Two weeks later, the Starks and the rest of Winterfell said goodbye to the royals and their company. Sylvia was very sad to see her parents and uncles go, especially Renly. Since seeing him again after so many years, he'd built up a lot of very interesting things to talk about, providing endless hours of entertainment. He kissed her hand, and promised a present as soon as he saw her again. Uncle Tyrion kissed her hand as well, and said some wonderfully witty words which made her sad to see him go, and Uncle Jaime...well he didn't even acknowledge her.

_He's far to official_ , she thought later,  _Uncle Jaime always has been_. When she was a little girl she'd run to him a few times, with Ser Fredrick in tow, and show him a trinket she found absolutely splendid or a new puppy or kitten mother had just given her. She'd found nothing wrong with it, he was her mother's brother, and her other uncles never minded. But always, Uncle Jaime would mumble a few words— "Oh yes, that's ever so  _fascinating_ ," or "My, my, princess,  _another_  pet. You'll be mistress of a farmhouse before long,"—and leave so abruptly, that even as a child she'd felt snubbed. And even as a child, his words always made her angry, because it always sounded like he was making fun of her. But, as children's understanding goes, she never thought much on it, but after a while, she stopped bothering him with such things and paid her attentions to Ser Fredrik instead. Uncle Jaime never complained.

Mother bid her goodbye with a kiss to the forehead and an insistence that she visit the Capitol immediately. Father left her with a gentle clap on the shoulder and a joke on how she should be with child soon enough since she and Robb so seemed to enjoy each other at night. If looks could kill, the king would have been six foot under, by both her husband and her mother.

She missed her family as soon as the gates of Winterfell closed. When she would see them again, she did not know, and that was the worst part. Would she have a baby in her belly or in her arms when next she saw her mother? Would she have a multitude of children? Would it be a tragedy that brought them back together? Or a happy day, like their wedding? So many questions, but none knew the answer.

The new little Lady Stark, as Ser Fredrik called her affectionately, was solemn for days after the royal convoy's departure, and Robb knew little in how to comfort her. He tried his best to cheer her, to get her to smile, but those joys didn't last very long.

"I'll be alright," she promised one night, three days after her family left. Robb's worry and impatience had boiled over and now he raised his voice to get her to do  _something_  other than sulk.

But she was calm when she replied, gentle when she took his hand in hers and pleaded for him not to worry so much and sweet as sin when his began kissing from under his ear and over his jaw. He held her hips in his large hands as she spoke into his neck, laying her head against his chest and clutching his doublet like a child. "It just bothers me a while after parting from my family," she said, and it hurt Robb to know she'd felt this way before.

"We're your family now," he countered, running a hand up her back to between her shoulder blades.  _But they were my family first_ , she thought.

"Yes you are," she replied, nuzzling her head into his neck like a cat. He rumbled out his reply and kissed her forehead.

A month later, a girl arrived at Winterfell by the name of Elane, sent by Tyrion Lannister to be a personal handmaiden to Sylvia. “A late wedding present,” Elane called herself.


	8. Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We're going to have a baby."

**Chapter 5: Time**

For the most part, time passed quickly as if usually does when one is happy. And Robb and Sylvia were quite happy.  _Most days._

Their first real argument as a married couple was about visiting the Capitol. Plainly, Sylvia wanted to go, and Robb did not. More like he refused to even consider the notion.

“Why won’t you even consider taking in the Capitol?” the southern girl asked in a huff.  

"That place is a snake pit of politics and lies. I won't let you go there."

Robb knew by the fire flaring in her eyes, that his words had not calmed the situation at all. "What I do doesn't concern you!" 

He frowned, finding that entire statement odd. "It does! We're _married_ , Sylvia!" Their shouts were so loud now that servants hurried past the door, wary that should one part of the young couple stormed out, they would rumble over whatever poor soul standing in their path.

Yet Ser Fredrik stood guard outside the door, listening intently and ready to intervene if he had to. He was part of the Stark household guard now, and had vowed to protect House Stark as loyally and dutifully as he’d protected the eldest Baratheon princess. But it was only for Sylvia, why he’d sworn those vows at all... and perhaps a sense of having nothing grander to do. Fredrik would always protect Sylvia before the rest, even if the Starks were honourable men.

"Maybe we wouldn’t be married if you’d shown how pigheaded you _actually_ are when presented with a choice you don’t like.” she countered, wanting to hit where it would hurt.

The new Lady Stark was angry. No, she wasn’t angry as _Lady_ _Stark_ , she was angry as _Princess Sylvia of House Baratheon_. Angry as any woman would be when denied the ability to see her family.

The last few days she and Robb had been back and forth on this, with her suggesting they visit and take in court life a while (like any wise couple would do), and with Robb countering that there was simply too much to do in Winterfell and visiting King's Landing would not be wise. Tension mounted and built until finally it all boiled over into a loud argument between the two newlyweds. Sylvia never thought she’d argue with Robb like this, never thought she’d want to hurl hurtful things at him, yet feel the prickles of regret as soon as they left her mouth.  

Robb narrowed his eyes critically, setting them on his wife. “Seems I’ve married a spoilt little girl. Maybe I can talk your father into taking you back. Then we’ll both have what we want.”

Sylvia growled. “What I _want_ is to show my husband where I grew up. To show him off to all those wretched nobles, who once whispered among themselves that my future husband could never possibly love me.” Truly, she’d thought this herself, in her lowest moments of self pity. But, with how she’d seen courtiers devour gossip like starving dogs, she imagined that she was not too far off.

“I am not your prize, Sylvia. I’m your husband.”  Her husband’s voice was stern, but there was a hint of something vulnerable in his tone. Something that didn’t like being seen as anything but her dearest love.

“My mother invited us. It would insult the Crown to reject the queen’s invitation.”

 "Sylvia, we've only been married  _three months!_ Now's not the time to be running off to the south! We have duties here!" Robb bit back vehemently.

"You!  _You_  have duties here! You Starks and your duty, duty,  _duty!_  I have no real duties here! Winterfell will stay afloat without me!"

"You  _being here_  is your duty!" he shouted back. Just as he learned lordship from his father, his wife learned ladyship from his mother, so that she would one day rule the north at his side with wisdom and  

“So that’s it then? We won’t go, because _you_ don’t want to.” To emphasize her point, she poked him in the chest.

“You really think I’d want to stay in that place, where you yourself admit the people there indulge in gossip more than they do in wine.”

 _Sylvia’s jaw dropped indignantly._ _“I_  lived there for  _eleven_  years!  All _you_ know of it is what I and your father have told you! I want to go home! I want to see my brother and sister!" Little Tommen who she'd never met and dear sweet Myrcella who she hadn't seen in far too long, were becoming farther and farther away as she argued with her husband. Somewhere, deep inside, she knew she would not win—Robb was just as stubborn as she, and as her husband, he would chose if they would travel. But still she fought on with all she could, because a Baratheon never lies down, and meekly concedes defeat. 

But Robb didn’t argue back. He didn’t yell or roll his eyes. He looked over her head, not even looking at her. Her throat felt tight and when she spoke, she was thankful that her voice did not betray the cracks in her armor. “I don’t understand, Robb. Tell me true, why don’t you even want to think of indulging me?”

 _Going there will just remind you how different we truly are, and you’ll miss the south a hundred times more when we leave and come to resent me for all my northern meagreness_.  Robb finally met his wife’s eyes. He could tell she was getting upset; the fight began to dwindle, anger replaced with despair. Robb nearly lost all his fight right there. He never wished to hurt her.

All he had ever heard of the Capitol was that one had to be hard and willing to do anything, in order to thrive there. So many times, when  _Sylvia_  spoke of her life there, she'd tell him of what a bully her brother was, or how she hated playing the harp, and even how once when she was very small, her father let her sit on the Iron Throne for a few moments.

Yet through all her petty complains and fond (albeit lonely) stories of her childhood, he could faintly see a picture of the Capitol he didn't like, one filled with vile power hungry snakes who breathed lies and thought of honour as a cumbrance.

When she talked about her brother, she told him how he'd kicked her puppies and kittens, and how after one terrible incident with a cat (she didn't go into much detail), she never had another pet. He finally asked why he always did the things he did. "Didn't your father ever punish him?" he asked curiously. Once when he was just a little lad, he pushed his sister down in the mud, causing a cut on her arm where she'd landed. His father gave his behind a thrashing after explained why he mustn't ever do it again. Robb never did.

"He...he  _does_ ," she wouldn't really call what father did to Joffrey discipline. Looking back it was more just a very harsh beating than a father correcting his son, and she felt sad for her little brother. He was just a small little boy then, and her father had always been a big man. For such a small child to take a hit like that—from his own  _father_ , no less—brought forth pity she hadn't felt for Joffrey in  _years_. Even though what he did (what he  _still_  does as far as she knew), was horrible and terrible, surely it could have been handled better. "But...he isn't very good at it and mother...well, when it comes to Joffrey, she's just much more passionate about raising him than father." She said, having a bit of trouble trying to explain it in the most flattering way. Sylvia didn't want Robb to think badly of her family, but by the way he was frowning, told her he already was.

Not only was Robb wary of her younger brother and how people there simply  _let_  him get away with his cruelties, he truly  _did not want_  to go to the place where so much horror had come to his family. He did not belong in King’s Landing. He was his father's heir; he belonged in Winterfell, and now so did Sylvia, although she fervently insisted she belonged where her family was.

He wanted to stay in Winterfell, where he knew without a doubt, she'd be safe from the ugliness of the Capitol. But he couldn't tell her that, she throw it back at him and tell him she wasn't a child who needed protecting. And if he told her how he feared she’d come to think her marriage to him was below her status...he didn’t want to think of what she’d say.

"If you go there, don't expect me to meekly follow you." He said finally. She fixed him with the harshest glare he'd ever seen on her, and stormed out of the room. They hardly spoke for two days after that.

* * *

"It's all right, my lady," Elane comforted as she gently pulled the sponge down Sylvia's hair, washing it of the sweet lavender oils she's worked through the black strands. Sylvia had begun recounting the whole spat as soon as her body sunk down into the hot water, and each word that dripped off her tongue, felt like a little weight lifted from her heart as her new handmaiden listened dutifully. "Men...they always have to be right, you see, but when they realize they're not, they come back and grovel." Sylvia smiled at her handmaiden's words. Elane had been with her for three months now, and already, Sylvia counted her as one of her closest friends. The girl was beautiful and witty, clever and kind, and ever so easy to talk with. It felt good to complain and have someone agree with her. Sylvia was grateful her dear uncle Tyrion had sent Elane to her.

"With the way he's been acting, I hope so. Do you know he said King's Landing's a snake pit?" Sylvia remarked. "The dunderhead has never even been past the _Neck_. He doesn’t know anything about the south." The young lady grumbled. Elane smiled in agreement and continued her task. "I'm so tired of _fighting_ with him," she lamented, dropping her head back against the tub with a harsh thud. "We've never fought like this before. I just want to go back and take the entire quarrel back. But...he doesn't know anything about the Capitol! And he won't even _consider_ it! Like what I want doesn't matter. And why does he think it always has to be his way? I'm still a _princess,_ even if I’ve married him."

Elane giggled. "I'm sure Lord Robb just needs a bit of persuading, my lady. My mama said even though the man is the head, the woman is the neck, and the neck turns the head, any way she wants."

"I shouldn't have to _persuade_ him. He should just...listen to me." Sylvia ended sadly. Elane didn't reply, and she began to feel prickles of discomfort at the back of her mind. Had she made her new friend uncomfortable? "Your mother sounds smart. Who was your mother, Elane?" Sylvia asked to both change the ugly topic, and the fact that she truly was curious. Where had her new handmaid come from? She knew Casterly Rock, but that was it.

"Oh, just some woman from Casterly Rock; nothing really very interesting about her. Now my father, he's much more interesting." Elane smiled proudly. She set down the sponge and picked up an ivory comb to begin brushing her lady's hair with.

"Why is your father so interesting?" Elane had never had a mistress so interested in her life before. Often, she'd been told she talked too much and that her job was to keep her mouth shut and listen to her mistress' every problem and command. Now Lady Sylvia's questions were strange, but not unwelcomed and she answered the younger girl honestly.

"Because I don't know who he is."

A beat of confused silence, then: "You're a bastard?!" Sylvia was surprised. Not disgusted, only surprised...well maybe a little dismayed. In the Capitol, it would be unbecoming for a princess to be associated with a bastard and for her own noble uncle to send one to her as a gift was a bit of a jolt. _Bastards are vile, shameful children, born of sin_ , her septa had said. She'd loved Bryda and so believed her.

But then when she came here, she met Jon Snow, Robb's natural brother. At first, she'd wanted nothing to do with him, although she never said so out loud, because her betrothed, his younger siblings _and_ Lord Stark were so fond of the boy. Her loathing for him came to a halt when she saw how kind he was, how gentle he was with his young siblings, just like Robb. Jon was quiet, shy, gentle and ever so kind and polite. He wasn't anything like what everyone in the Capitol had said bastards would be and she'd come to look past his ugly title and see him as Robb's brother, different names and mothers but brothers all the same. She cared for him as much as she did Bran and Rickon, but he was still a bastard, and so her fondness for him was often muted in public.

"Well, yes. Technically." Elane replied timidly, a little put off by her lady’s reaction. "My mother was a handmaiden to Tywin Lannister's wife when she was alive, but when she got pregnant with me, she couldn't work anymore, because what lady would want a fat, dishonoured handmaiden? But Lady Joanna was so very kind and let my mother keep working until I was born, and then after that I stayed in the kitchens until I was old enough to serve too."

"Really? My grandmother must have been very kind. My mother never talks about her. But how'd you become a handmaid? Bastards aren’t known to rise so high." Elane blinked, but answered.

"Well, one of the lesser ladies in Casterly Rock needed a handmaid and so...Then about three months ago—after you wedding my lady—Lord Tyrion came back to Casterly Rock and had all us handmaids line up. He went up and down a few times, stopped at me, and asked me what my name was, who my parents were and if I'd like to go to Winterfell to serve his _lovely_ niece." She finished with an affectionate, yet professional nudge to Sylvia's shoulder. Sylvia smiled at the compliment. Elane continued to comb her lady's hair, some water dripping from the black strands and onto her skirt covered lap.

"But why is your father more interesting than your mother?" Sylvia asked.

"Because I don't know him, I make up stories about him, and why he's not here. It's better than not knowing, I think." Elane had done this ever since she was a little girl, to make up for the loneliness at not knowing who her father was. She'd made up lots of stories.

"Oh. Can you...can you tell me one?"

Elane smiled. "Of course my lady. Well, he was a pirate from across the sea and into the Summer Isles, and one day he was..." as her new friend told her story, Sylvia forgot the fight with her husband for a few moments and let her handmaiden's tale take her away.

But Sylvia was still angry at Robb when he came to her that night, and was still angry when he said he was tired of having a silent war with his wife.

"Four days is too long to argue," he said. She said nothing. "Please, Sylvia." He sounded so sincere, yet so stern and lordly that Sylvia's resolve began to chip away at the look in his blue eyes. She looked away. "Please see it through my eyes; we've only been married a few months and it wouldn't...I don't want to keep you away from your family. I know you're angry, but—" He didn't say he was sorry, and so, neither did she. As if to spite him and add more truth to his words, she remained silent. She knew it petty and childish, but she didn't care. Sylvia only lay down and turned away on her side.

Robb sighed. "I love you," he said after a moment in the darkness of their chambers. Robb turned away as well, leaving it at that, his back facing her as he settled in for another long, cold night.

He was nearly asleep when he felt her arms embrace him from behind, warm and soft and so wonderfully welcome. Without uttering a word, he turned back and pulled her into his arms, her sweet scent filling his nose and making his chest rumble with pleasure. He suddenly realised just how much he didn't like sleeping away from her.

"I'm sorry things got as bad as they did." He heard her whisper in the dark, her breath warm on his chest.

She wasn't sorry for her opinion on the matter, he noted, and Robb couldn't fault her for that, because neither was he. They could only be sorry for their anger, and for hurting the other with it, and that was enough. They were both tired of fighting a useless battle anyway. "I'm sorry I yelled, and told you I’d give you back to your father." He replied. She pressed a chaste kiss on his chest in response.

“I wouldn’t have let you.” She replied wryly. “No one could’ve pried me off you.” Robb’s chest rumbled as he laughed.

In the end, Sylvia didn't get to go to the Capitol. Robb had won, but he didn't feel good about it. In fact he abhorred thinking he'd won anything. Eventually, the anger and hurt waned, but visiting King's Landing was still a tender spot to bring up.

* * *

 

_About a year after the wedding_

"Oh, ohhh, Gods! _OOHHH!_ " Sylvia keened fervently. Robb groaned into her neck and gripped her thighs so tight it hurt as he jerked and twitched, reaching the crest of his pleasure inside her. After a year, after countless times of being together in the most delightful of ways, she could never see this—this intimacy and passion— _ever_ losing appeal. She adored being so close to him, felt...somehow complete when he was with her like this. At ease. Safe. Home. She wondered if he felt the same.

It was quiet for a moment, the corridor only filled with their heavy breathing and the popping of the torch overhead as they calmed. "We'll be late, to S-Sansa's— _ahh_ —f-feast." the onyx haired woman murmured into her husband's ear, a lazy smile on her pink lips. She tightened her grip on the back of his head, fingers tightly coiled around his soft auburn curls.

"Don't care," he mumbled back, his voice husky and lazy with pleasure, his beard scraping against the sensitive skin of her neck. Sylvia smiled and pulled his hair harshly, pulling his head back so he could meet her eyes.

"Put me down," Robb chucked breathlessly and complied, her legs unwrapping from his hips and disappearing under her skirts as she smoothed them down. She felt his seed trickle down her thigh and wondered if she’d feel it the rest of the evening. With slightly shaky hands, he tucked himself away and began to lace up his breeches, smiling coyly all the while. "We are never going to get anything done, if you attack me all the time," she smiled. The laces of her bodice were loose under her hands, having been pulled and tugged by Robb's greedy fingers. She began to tighten them as she leaned against the wall again.

"You seem to enjoy it," he smirked.

"Oh yes, I _adore_ being pawed at constantly." she shot back, half joking. For the last year, they'd seemed to _always_ crave each other's touch, young as they were. Theon had even said they would rut on the dinner table at night if they could, although in an entirely vulgar way that made Sansa blush and Sylvia splutter out curses at the stupid squid boy. She would die before she _ever_ admitted Theon was half right. As time went along, they grew more and more comfortable in their lovemaking and found that waiting _all day_ to retire to their chambers was simply not suitable to their needs. So they decided to right that little problem. Sylvia blushed at the mere memory. She'd never be able to go past the Glass Gardens or the heart-tree in the godswood, or even various dark corners in Winterfell's castle without grinning. "You know, for a northerner with ice in his veins, you run as hot as molten iron." She began to try to smooth her hair down.

"Well...my southern wife has had a hand in warming my icy blood." Sylvia giggled. When they were sure they were decent, they pulled away from the darkened corridor and walked to the Main Hall with silly, satisfied grins on their faces.

The days in Winterfell had passed without much event. Sansa and Arya visited her most days, strolling with her throughout Winterfell, talking about pleasant things which Arya would soon grow very bored with and find some way to make their stroll more interesting. Little Rickon had taken to throwing things; just a few nights ago he'd thrown his pudding at her when she'd teased him. The child had remarkable aim for such a little thing—the brown goop had splattered all over her neck, jaw and hair. Bran continued climbing the walls and towers of Winterfell despite Lady Catelyn's command not to, even though he never  fell. Theon had taken it upon himself to defile Elane like one of his back alley whores, even though Sylvia had all but ordered him to keep his cock to himself. Elane was sly and quick as a fox though, and she spurned Theon's advances each time and sent him away with his tail between his legs.

The long summer days passed into months without much interruption. Robb and Sylvia celebrated a year together by riding out through the moors around Winterfell for a day, and then finding themselves naked at the foot of a large hill amongst the tall grass.

But on one particular morning, not very long after their ride, it became clear that Robb and Sylvia's habitual routine was at an end.

The young woman stood with Maester Luwin in her chambers, looking anywhere but his kindly old eyes as he asked her _very_ delicate questions. The old maester had always been kind to her, he had taught her how to tell between the different constellations and had taught her about every different king before Aegon's Landing, and now she had to answer questions of a very personal nature. She could have consulted her old septa, but she despised the sour old creature, and didn't want her to spoil potentially the most memorable moment of her life. Maester Luwin felt at her belly, pressing and kneading, a concentrated look in his eye as she stared up at the stone ceiling, much like she had her first night as Sylvia Stark.

When he pulled away and permitted her to sit up, it was his simple nod that made her burst into tears. And she hated crying, it was _highly_ undignified for a princess. She'd seen how her father hated tears, and knew men must hate it when a woman cries, but she didn't care, and neither did Maester Luwin who kindly patted her back in comfort.

The woman couldn't believe this wonderful news, and as eager and alight as she was, she couldn't sit down and paced the floor half a hundred times before she ventured out of her chambers. Sylvia felt different as she strolled through the corridors of Winterfell, older somehow. Changed. She was going to be a _mother_ ; she was carrying her husband's baby inside her...a little babe of their own, one they had made together, one they would raise and love _together_. The best part of the both of them, combined into one little person.

Robb was the first person she wanted to tell, she wanted to see the look on his face when she told him she carried his child in her belly. He'd be with his father probably, and Lord Stark was usually in his solar. Her heart thumped loudly in her breast as she approached Lord Stark's solar doors. How would he react to the news? Would he be happy as she? Angry? She hoped not, because she felt _so_ elated she could fly. She hesitated a second before knocking. It was not a wife's prerogative to interfere her husband's duties, but...surely finding out you were to be a _father_ would override such social norms for just a second?

With a steady hand, she knocked on the door, and was thankful for the muffled, "Enter," from the other side. The door never felt heavier under her hand.

Lord Stark was more surprised than anything when his good-daughter came rushing into his solar, aglow with happiness. He could only guess what would have a woman so aflutter, unable to stop smiling for he'd seen that exact same look four times before with Catelyn. Eddard stopped reading the raven's scroll in his hands and glanced up at his son's wife in curiosity, while Robb frowned and closed the book he'd been reviewing before standing and crossing the little bit of space between them.

"Sylvia what are you doing?" Robb demanded. It was a bit...embarrassing for her to come here unannounced. He didn't want his father to reprimand him like a boy once she left, but she'd never done this before. What was wrong? What was so important she felt the need to interrupt?

"I need to speak with you." She beamed, his disapproving tone having no affect on her mood. With a momentary glance at his father, and seeing him nod once, Robb and Sylvia quickly hurried out the door.

His wife turned to him as the door closed. "Sylvia you can't just come here like this, it—"

"Robb I'm pregnant," she blurted with a smile. She didn't even care he'd been reprimanding her like a child. She just...had to tell him. Her fingers twisted and tangled nervously in front of her, watching his face dissolve into shock and awe. His blue eyes flicked to her flat belly and then back to her face, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth through his surprise.

"A...a baby?" he finally managed with hardly controlled elation. “You’re certain?” Sylvia nodded. A breathless laugh came from her husband's lips, echoed by her own.

A bubble of happiness expanded out from his chest at the thought of a child of their own. He _loved_ her, and the idea of her round and swelling with his babe gave him a feeling of pride and joy unlike any other. Without warning, Robb grabbed her hips and pulled her close, wrapping her up in his arms as tight as he dared. That same stinging in her eyes came back again, but this time, she didn't feel the same urgent need to wipe her tears away. Sylvia buried her face in Robb's chest, inhaling his wonderful scent for a moment. Robb stared at the wall behind Sylvia unblinkingly, amazed at his wife's news. He couldn't believe it. She was pregnant. She was having his baby! He smiled.

“We’re going to have a baby.” Her voice was low, a little choked with emotion.

When he pulled away after a long moment of holding her, he cupped her cheeks and tilted her face up to kiss her. Sylvia sighed in his arms, and then gasped in surprise when his teeth nipped at her bottom lip, his tongue plunging inside at once and coaxing hers into a slow dance.

In his mind's eye he could see her: beautiful and radiant as ever, swollen and round at her belly, with _his_ child, proof he'd had her, proof to the entire world she loved him and had a part of him growing inside her. Something deep inside him rumbled with pleasure, like an animal baying into the night sky in hope of a reply, and then hearing an answer from its pack. Yes, he very much liked the idea of her carrying his pup.

Slowly, his lips pulled from hers but he kissed her once, twice and then three times before he brushed his nose against hers. His breath was warm on her face, and smelled of the bacon he'd been eating at breakfast. She opened her eyes to look at him, and found his beautiful river-blue eyes staring down at her intently. "I love you. I _love you_ ," He enunciated softly. Sylvia mumbled her reply, still dazed at his sudden heated kiss. As he held her hip, his hand slipped ever so slightly until his palm rested against the flatness of her belly.

* * *

 

News of the princess' pregnancy spread like fire through the north, and before a moons turn, even the lowliest people in the most meagre fishing villages knew. People in the south knew and were glad for the princess' babe, giving it momentary attention, before continuing on with their activities. When the raven came to the Keep, the king had laughed and boasted how he knew it wouldn't be very long before his daughter had a pup of her own. Robert was marvellously pleased for days after, his lifelong aspiration of having both Stark and Baratheon bound by blood finally achieved. The queen wouldn't receive any visitors that day, and kept shut up in her rooms with her children when she heard the news.

Sylvia's belly curved quicker than she ever could have imagined. Their child was growing every day, and she held the little bump proudly, even as her body changed to accommodate the babe within her womb. Her breasts grew tender to the point where Robb could not touch them when they made love for fear of causing her pain. Her feet and back began to ache and she craved the _oddest_ things—like bread and jam with bacon on top—and she was tired, _all the time_. Although she might have preferred the comfort of her blood during such a strange time, she was happy her husband's family was with her. And if she was honest, the only people in the Capitol who might have actually given her comfort through the coming months were Myrcella and her mother. Father would be crass, Uncle Tyrion and Uncle Renly knew nothing of childbearing, and Uncle Jaime and Tommen were out of the question—Jaime too distant and Tommen too little. Joffrey she wouldn't even think of.

But Lady Catelyn was very kind—very _happy_ —and told her what to expect in the coming months. Lord Eddard was kind-hearted as he always was and said it would be a wonderful thing to have a babe in the castle again. They both seemed very delighted to be grandparents.

Sansa was absolutely over the moon to be an aunt, almost as excited for the impending arrival as Sylvia and Robb. She'd taken to making a darling swaddling blanket for the baby, and liked to show Sylvia its progress each time she visited her. "I've just started in on the river here, see?" the sweet girl pointed out on the small stretch of cotton. The work was delicate and fine, simple blue stitching woven into the pale grey fabric. "I am going to add in some flowers as well, to represent the south." Sylvia smiled at that. Yes, flowers would be lovely, a reminder of the south, where the child's mother had haled from.

Arya was less... _enthusiastic_ than her sister, more curious than anything really, but she never voiced her questions like her littlest brother. When the fifth moon started, and her belly was noticeably round, more than once Sylvia or Robb had caught Arya staring at it with a disbelieving look on her face. Once during an outing in the godswood with the younger children, Robb called attention to his sister's fascination with his wife's swelling belly.

"Are you afraid of Sylvia's bump, Arya?" He asked with a boyish smirk.

" _I am not!"_ the wild Stark girl screeched in offence. "It's just...weird...there's a baby in there." she poked a finger towards the bump sticking out between the slit of Sylvia's cloak. As soon as she said it, her face flamed up at how lame it sounded, but it was strange that there was another person under Sylvia's skin, a little...creepy. She didn't remember when her mother was swelling with Bran or Rickon, and now she was old enough to really understand what caused the bump under Sylvia's dress. It wasn't very big, but it was still growing...it was different from seeing the cats or hounds pregnant. Sylvia was a _person_ , and she had another human growing... _inside her_. It was strange, almost unbelievable.

Sylvia grinned, and moved her cloak away a little to allow the bump to be fully visible. "Here, give me your hand." Sylvia put out her gloved hand to her young good-sister, giving her a gentle smile of encouragement. With trepidation, Arya did as she was bid. With the younger girl's hand was in hers, Sylvia pulled her arm and suddenly, her _hand_ was on the side of the bump she stared at with such strange curiosity. And it was fine until she felt _it_ : a tiny little nudge under her hand, and Arya jumped back.

"What is it doing?" She cried in horror. She hadn't considered if they moved or not.

"He's kicking," Sylvia smiled a sly smile. "Why? Does it frighten you?"

"You've got another person _moving_ under your skin!" the younger girl shouted disbelievingly. Robb laughed and placed a hand on his sister's shoulder, leaning down to look her honestly in the eye.

"He does that quite a lot," he grinned at her. When he pulled away, he put a hand on Sylvia's belly, wrapped an arm around her waist, and smiled that stupid dreamy smile he always made when he was around Sylvia. Arya rolled her eyes at them and went to find Bran or Jon, to wash her mind of Robb's stupid dreamy grin, and the moving bulge under Sylvia's dress.

Robb looked down to where his hand rested when he felt another firm nudge landed on his palm. "I think he grows stronger every time I feel him." he murmured thoughtfully as she rubbed her finger tips over his knuckle. Her hand was warm over his; even through the leather of her gloves he could feel her warmth. Sylvia couldn't look away from his face, his handsome, serene looking face. He usually only ever looked that way when he was meditating before the heart-tree, but he was feeling their baby move, and she felt her heart ache sweetly at his calmness in his eyes.

"Aye, I think so too." He grinned fondly at their hands and then looked at her. "Why do you think it's a boy?" she asked with an amused grin.

"I don't know. I just feel it." He replied. The hand around her waist began to move to her hip, slowly as the falling summer snows.

"You're just guessing, aren't you?" Sylvia giggled cheerfully. "Shall we make a wager of it then?" Her hands raised up to fist the warm wolf fur lining the top of his cloak.

Robb smirked back, the hand on her belly beginning to move to her hip as well. "Yes. And when I'm right, you'll have to owe me something."

"And what will I owe you?"

His leaned in close so his lips were only a small distance from hers. "Haven't decided yet." He whispered with a wolfish grin as his hands slipped down to cup her bottom under her cloak.

"Oh I think you have." She smirked devilishly before she quickly kissed him. "But there are children about, so we'll discuss who-wins-what later." She pulled away from his arms and started after Rickon only a short distance away. Robb smiled and started after her.

Bran and Rickon were much the same: indifferent, apart from when she took their small hands and put them on her belly to feel what Arya had felt. Bran smiled and went on with his day, but Rickon being only a five year old, began overflowing with questions. "How did it get in there? Is it stuck? When will it be here? Will it be a boy or girl? Will it like to play with me? Will it have a tail!? Old Nan said there once was a baby born with a tail and then it grew paws and pointy ears and fur and turned into a wolf! Will your baby be a wolf?" Lady Catelyn and Lord Eddard tried to answer every question as quickly as they could, but the little boy came up with them so fast that often they were at loss how to answer.

Theon had taken to making jokes about her protruding belly—comparing her to her father once or twice—but was otherwise pleasant. She had to admit his jests were funny. She blamed it on her uncontrollable emotions. Jon said little as always, but he'd always been so kind to her—he would ask her how she fared and how the child was, and she'd always reply just as pleasantly. Like his other siblings, she even had him feel her belly, and thoroughly enjoyed his look of amazement when he felt the baby roll around under his hand.

Robb was probably the happiest of them all, like a proud father he touched the swell between her hips all the time and smiled at her so gently. He could never keep his hands off her swelling belly for very long, and at night, he would press his lips there, whispering the growing child within. Sometimes she would awaken with his hand on her stomach, Robb's hand having somehow found the curve in the night and for as long as she lived she could _never_ forget his face when he felt the baby move the first time.

They were happy...but behind closed doors, they let their fear show.

"What if I drop it?" Robb asked suddenly as they prepared for bed with Sylvia was unlacing his doublet as he spoke. She'd taken to helping him undress at night, as he'd taken to brushing his fingers through her long hair. It was a ritual they did almost every night, one that was both familiar and comforting in its warmth.

"What?" His wife replied as her fingers deftly twisted and loosened the strings.

"I can't help but wonder," he defended quickly. "What if I drop our babe?"

Sylvia paused a moment to look up at her husband with an incredulous look. This wasn't the first time he'd voiced one of his fears to her, but this was by far the most absurd. "My love, you can hold onto _Rickon_ when he's angry; I think you can hold a docile infant." Finally her fingers were done and he pulled the leather doublet overhead. She licked her suddenly dry lips at the sight of his bare chest and stomach. It was odd. Ever since she learned she was pregnant, her hunger for her husband had increased threefold.

He tossed the doublet away on the chair near the fire. "I know you're right, but the fear still stands." He replied. Rolling her eyes, Sylvia stepped away, pulled her long hair over her shoulder and turned around. Robb started on the laces of her dress as well, pulling and unknotting the strings like he had so many nights before. Sylvia could almost purr with pleasure at his gentle hands.

"We should start thinking on names." He said as he continued on his task.

"If it's a boy, I want Robert," she exclaimed immediately. Robb raised a brow. Well...she'd been thinking on this a while, he realized. "We could call him Robbie." She continued. Robb frowned as finished with the laces; he pushed the dress off her shoulders until it was just a crumbled pile pooled at her feet. His wife turned, shivering in her under shift and looked up at him, a small smile on her beautiful face. "Yes?"

"No." He replied directly.

Sylvia's jaw dropped in surprise. "What? What do you mean 'no'? Robert is a good name, after _my_ father and after _you_. After the _king and_ my own sweet husband." Her hands gripped his shoulders, pressing close to him as though she were trying to persuade him with her sweet scent and soft body.

"It's just... _ugh_." He grinned at her face. She looked so disgruntled it warmed his heart, her nose even scrunched up.

"' _Ugh_ '? Robert's a good name, a good strong name. It's an honour to my father."

"Well in that case, if it's a girl we should name her Lyanna." He countered seriously.

"Lyanna?" she echoed. She looked to think for a second, and then scrunched up her nose again. "No, absolutely not."

"Why not? It's an honour to my aunt." Her hands left his shoulders and went down to retrieve the crumbled dress at her feet. When she had it, she walked around him and threw it over the dressing screen.

"And an insult to my mother." She said. Her father was going to marry Lyanna Stark but she had died before they wed. Her father loved her so much he started a war to bring her back. It would insult her mother to name her first grandchild after the woman.

"Just as ' _Robert'_ would be an insult to our babe." Robb said this with no bitterness, but rather a straight forward kind of voice, one a lord used when commanding authority.

"What is that supposed to mean?" she frowned as she turned back to him.

"The man was drunk at our wedding. Forgive me if I'd rather not name my first child after him."

"Well we wouldn't call him Robert. We'd call him Robbie. I _like_ Robbie, its dear." Truly, when he put it that way, the name suddenly lost much of its previous appeal. It still bothered her that her father had been so... _drunk_ at her wedding. She was his daughter, and it had been her wedding day, so why hadn't he done her a kindness by letting it be untainted with the ugly memory of him and his fat whore? She still loved him, but it sometimes remembering her own wedding hurt her because of _him_.

"' _Robbie'_ doesn't command immediate respect from his men." He replied with a frown.

Sylvia rolled her eyes but conceded. "Ugh, fine, fine. No Robbie. But no Lyanna either."

"Fine. What about Darla? My father's mother was named Darla." The suggestion was fair; a family name had its charms...but _Darla?_

"No. Next." She pulled back the furs and climbed into bed, Robb doing the same, but first sitting down to pull off his boots and unlace his breeches. When he was done, he joined her under the warm covers, comfortably propped against the headboard.

"Jeyne?" he tried. She shook her head. "Alessa?"

"No. Myra?" she suggested, as she lay down on her side. The roundness of her belly made it uncomfortable to lay on her front now.

Robb paused, and for a moment she thought he was pondering the name seriously, but when he spoke, she was proven wrong. "Why don't we forgo names tonight?" For a moment, she was silent. Then she smiled. Sylvia couldn't help it: she burst into giggles. Gods only a few names in and he couldn't think of it anymore.

"Has thinking of names gotten too difficult?" she teased.

"Not the names." He smirked.

“Oh hush. I am _not_ difficult.” She quipped.

* * *

 

Sylvia couldn't believe it. She looked down at Elane's pretty golden-brown head humbly, hoping to one day repay her handmaiden's unquestioned kindness somehow. When had it gotten so difficult to _bend down,_ that her handmaiden was tasked with tying her boots? In the fifth month? The sixth? Oh, she didn't remember when she'd first asked Robb to tie them because her back hurt too much to do it herself. But since whenever that had been, it became an everyday task. When Elane was done, she stood up, smiled and helped her mistress stand from the bed, brushing out the wrinkles at once.

"Thank you Elane," Sylvia said sheepishly. The handmaid nodded in reply, and moved to let her mistress walk past. Three steps from to the door and a low farting sound broke through the air. Sylvia froze.

"Speak of this to no one." She ordered seriously.

Elane bit her cheek to hold in her giggles. "Yes, my lady."

Not only was her belly _big_ now, she was also gassy, her feet and back ached after the shortest of walks, and these ugly jagged stretch marks tore around her hips and lower belly. She hated them, but Robb assured her they didn't matter to him and kissed them when he whispered to their baby, or before they made love. Lately, she usually found herself sitting by the fire with her feet up, sewing clothes for her child, daydreaming all the while to fill the quiet.

Would their baby be a boy or a girl? She hoped for a boy, an heir for Robb, one with his hair...a hard kick landed in her side as she thought about it. Sylvia winced. Little creature was getting so rough that sometimes his kicks were painful.

“No more of that, you little ingrate.” She whispered, rubbing the tender spot. It was as strong as a boy, she thought. Lady Catelyn said she was "carrying low", which somehow meant she was carrying a boy. Sylvia was more skeptical on the latter, for how did belly shape determine what she was having? But in her heart she'd already dubbed it as a boy, and thought of it as such despite Ser Fredrik's reminder that maybe it could be a girl.

“When it’s a girl, you’ll have to name her after me. I was the only one who believed she was a she.” He had joked to her. “Yes, ‘ _Freda’_. A gorgeous name for a girl.”

She would wonder if it would have her hair or Robb's, if she would know what to name them the moment she saw it, or if she would be just as clueless as she was now. So many questions, so few answers, but Sylvia, for once, wasn't bothered by the lack of knowledge.

Not knowing, for once, didn't frighten her.

But one night during her seventh month, Sylvia and Robb had gone to sleep, but she was awoken by an uncomfortable ache in her bones. It was nothing too unusual since restless nights had become a common thing to her now.

She sat up, rubbed her eyes and stretched her legs a little, but as she tried to lie down and let sleep find her again, a sudden pain ripped through her abdomen. It was abrupt, sharp and quick and pulled her up as though someone had yanked her from the bed. She was stunned for a moment, sleepy and confused, wondering if that really just happened, but a kick from her babe snapped her out of it. _It's too early_ , she remembered thinking with horror, clutching at her swollen belly. She felt it move, what must have been a foot pushing against her hand. Seven months was too early. _My baby, my baby, please gods, not my baby._

Her gasp of pain had stirred Robb some, but her frantic shaking of his shoulder and frightened voice fully roused him, shaken, and worried. "Robb!" she hissed in fear. "Robb! _Robb!_ S-something's wrong." A cry broke from her throat as another pain cut through her.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took so long because it was hard for me to revise the fight scene at the start. I hope you enjoyed! More to come soon!


	9. Minisa

**Chapter 6: Minisa**

_The Mother gives the gift of life,  
and watches over every wife._  
 _Her gentle smile ends all strife,_  
and she loves her little children.

_The Song of the Seven_ by George RR Martin

The cold light of daybreak came through the window as she lay there in her bed. She almost couldn't believe all that had happened in only a few short hours. She was tired, the fear had left her for the most part and now all she wished to do was sleep. But she couldn't. She wouldn't let herself, she was too afraid to sleep.

Maester Luwin said pains in the last few months happen sometimes; there was no way to predict them and they were dangerous. Sylvia took in a deep breath, the cold air burning her nose, and rubbed a hand over the precious bump under her night gown. Her baby was alive and safe inside her, kicking her, sitting on her bladder, and keeping her awake. For the first time she was thankful for these things. She was stupid before, an _idiot girl_ who didn't _think_.

The last hours had seemed to stretch and measure out into an eternity; her heart was still making its decent down from her throat, and her hands still trembled as they rested worriedly around her middle. Robb knelt next to her on the side of the bed, his hand clenched around the fabric at her hip. But his eyes were solely trained on her pale, shaken face—while hers never looked from the swell under her hands.

He could have lost her, Maester Luwin had told him privately. The babe could have been born still and Sylvia...she could have died in the birthing bed, if Maester Luwin had not stopped the pains when he did. The thought was painful to ponder, losing his sweet Sylvia, and the child she gave him at once. They weren't even _twenty_ , they weren't married two years, this was their first child - and their life together could have ended as quickly as it had started. It wasn't supposed to. They'd done nothing to deserve this, and yet fate had threatened them with it.

When he ran to fetch the maester, he'd hardly spared their baby a real thought, all he could think was that his wife was in pain, that she was in danger, and that she had to be alright. They could make another child, but there would never be another Sylvia. He bowed his head as he recalled it, deeply ashamed.

"You must lie abed until the child is born, my lady," the kindly old maester said, his voice serious and stern. "For the sake of the child. Too much activity in your condition will provoke labour pains, and next time I may not be able to stop them."

Sylvia didn't speak—couldn't—but nodded to show her understanding. The girl wasn't even bothered by the chain which had just shackled her to the bed. Her eyebrows narrowed, her arms cradling her bulging belly as if to protect it. _But how can I keep it safe when my own body betrays it?_ she wondered _._

Robb raised his hand to grip hers in comfort, but Sylvia moved her hand to run over her belly in an attempt to hide her rejection. He hardly seemed to notice, and gently touched his fingers to her shoulder, ghosting along her collar bone. The young wife resisted the urge to push his hands away. She didn't want him to touch her, the thought of it filled her with something heavy like guilt or fear, as though if he continued, his worry would end, and blame would set in.

She heard Maester Luwin take his leave, and when the door closed, Sylvia suddenly felt alone with her fears, even as Robb sat beside her. She kept her ocean blue eyes trained on the precious bump under her fingers, too afraid to meet her husband's eyes.

Sylvia's dreamy world was shattered with this scare, broken and scattered, taunting her with her naivety. There was more to think of than just names, of whether or not the child would look that her or Robb, if it would be a boy or girl. This was reality, and reality was ugly and scary, but it was the truth, and the truth was, she could have lost her baby tonight, helpless to stop it.

A sharp stab went through her heart, guilt weighing heavy on her shoulders. Was it her fault? It must have been; she was the mother, she was meant to _protect_ her child. Had she missed some signs that would have alerted her to the danger? Had she done something to provoke it? What had she done? Suddenly, with hideous clarity, she remembered wishing she wasn't pregnant anymore after one nasty bout of sickness, and again after Robb had rubbed her aching feet. How could she have wished that? Had her gods decided to teach her a cruel lesson? Her fingers clenched around her midsection over her nightdress.

"Syl..." Robb whispered, watching her face with concern. Sylvia huffed, and rested a hand at the top of the bump. She had to be strong, now more than ever. After a moment of gathering her courage, she looked up at him, eyes clouded with fear, a touch of shame and tears. He held the back of her neck, rubbing the ridges of her spine with his fingertips. "Syl, it's all right; the baby is well. All will be fine, I promise."

_How can you promise me that_? she wanted to ask.

In his ears, he could hear how weak, how desperate his voice sounded, and annoyance prickled at the back of his mind. He had stood with his father outside the room in the early waking hours of the morn, as Sylvia sobbed pathetically inside their chambers. Maester Luwin and both septa Mordane and Maesa had barred him from the room as they attempted to calm his wife's pains. He was prepared to barge his way in, but father had stopped him with a firm hand.

"Let them do their work," father said. "They know better than you how to help her." His mother tried to push him to sit like a petulant child, but Robb refused and tried again to push past his father and see his wife who was now sobbing for him beyond that door. Maybe he called out for her as well, or maybe it was only screamed in his head, but his frantic mind never heard a reply. Lord Eddard wretched his son away from the door, the younger man's feet scraping across the floor as his father pulled him far down the corridor. He didn't remember what he said or yelled, but when father released him, he was again seized and made to look into his father's face, lined with years of worry and stress.

" _Calm yourself, boy!"_ he had ordered, only some tenderness for his eldest shining through the lord's command. "You can't help her when you're as mad as she! You'll only make it worsen itself!"

"She _needs_ me!" the desperate urgency in his voice surprised him.

"Sylvia trusts you more than anyone, and if she saw you as panicked as she is, she'll only frighten herself more!"

Something made him keep fighting, despite the logic in his father's words: his love for her. "She's frightened _already_ without me there!"

"If she saw you like this you'll only panic her more! Think of the child, Robb!" his son's struggles faltered, and Lord Eddard knew he'd gotten through to him. "Think of the babe, and what will happen if Sylvia gets anymore upset." Robb swallowed dryly, a lump forming in his throat. He looked down the corridor where his family was gathered, his siblings watching with horrified fascination as their usually calm brother thrashed like a madman against their honourable father. He thought of Sylvia, his wife, _his own_ and how afraid she must be. "You are her husband," Lord Eddard reminded, gripping the back of his neck to get his son to look at him. "You must be strong for her, when she is not. Be her comfort."

It was hours before Robb could go past the door and see his wife, and when he did, he repeated his father's words in his head a hundred times. He could be afraid to himself all he liked, but to Sylvia he had to be confident, calm, supportive. He had to be her rock.

Sylvia averted her eyes, and was quiet a long moment. Finally she spoke, "I just want to go to sleep, Robb." She mumbled. He wouldn't understand, she told herself. _She_ was the one who was carrying their child, _she_ was the one who was meant to protect it, and _she_ was the one who was accountable for any blame that came from this. She didn't want to see it in his eyes, those eyes she loved so completely, which held such passion for everything he did and said. She didn't want to see those eyes turned on her.

Robb frowned as his wife began to gingerly slide down the bed, to lie on her back. She had a look on her face that he didn't like, one which pulled painfully at his insides like a hook. He didn't know what else to do—assurances seemed to go right through her, and he immediately saw the way she recoiled from his touch. Even if someone had told him long ago, that one day his wife and child would be in danger at the same time, no kind of preparation would have changed anything. He still wouldn't know what to do, still would have left her alone to find the maester when she first awoke him, still would have been half blinded by mindless fear.

Without thinking, Robb shifted his arms out to her, as if to help her lay flat and Sylvia felt prickles of anger surface from somewhere deep inside. _"I'm not a child!"_ she spat. "I don't _need_ help to  _lie down_." Her eyes wretched up to look into his, forgetting her previous fear, for just a moment, in favour of anger. She saw no blame in those cool icy blue eyes, only surprise and worry. She fixed him with a glare half weak with fatigue, but being a princess for all her life, she'd perfected her scathing glare on servants and her bratty little brother. Robb pulled back, stung.

Tearing her blue eyes away from his, she tenderly, carefully inched her way down on to the bed, settling stiffly against it and staring up at the stones above her.

She hadn't intended to be so sharp at her husband—he'd only been trying to help—but his kindness made her feel small. He'd never seen her so vulnerable and weak, and she didn't _want_ him to see her like this. When they were younger, when she was still a fresh summer flower yet to bloom in the frigid winds of the north, she'd been closed off to him, cold and shy. He'd never really known how afraid she was those first long months in the north. When they grew familiar with one another, and laid their armour down, wounds that came were always shallow, even when their bodies were laid up in bed.

Apart from the time he'd found her blubbering in the godswood when she was but four-and-ten, their wedding night was the most fragile she'd ever been. Until now. 

_This_ time was different; the first night they'd laid together as husband and wife, both Robb and Sylvia had been too eager to really mind the openness. _This_ was sobering and frightening—a tiny life hanging in the balance, a thin membrane of flesh protecting it from the outside world. _This_ time, their feelings were too different to let them share it with one another.  She was responsible for housing the life of their child, but she'd very nearly failed, and this battered her heart with guilt and worry. Robb had only been trying to ease her stress and she'd snapped at him.

Tears began to well in her eyes, stinging and hot. "Just go away," she whimpered, turning her face away to hide her weakness in her hands. "Pl- _please_ " the words were heavy in her mouth. Sylvia wanted to take them back, but as hot tears dripped down her nose, she kept herself from speaking out again. She was weak and small at present, not herself by any measure. Not the woman he'd married.

Her heart was warring with itself, she wanted her husband at her side, stroking her hair and promising her she was not to blame over and over again until she partway believed him. The other half of her wanted him to go away, to not be witness to her shame. Yet she ached for understanding, for assurance she doubted Robb could ever give her. In her heart, her mother's lessons on guarding one's self from their spouse still lived deep inside some hidden crevice of her being.

Robb stood straight beside the bed, stung into silence like a meek boy. He'd almost lost her and the child both, leaving her now seemed nigh unbearable. As a lord-to-be, Robb always understood he would not always be home, but rather traveling across to different holdfasts through the north for weeks or months at a time. He'd always believed separation from his Sylvia would be bearable because nothing would keep them apart forever.  Her arms would always be open when he returned. Now simply leaving the room felt as though he were leaving for Dorne, or for Essos. He didn't want to be apart from her, not now, not when she lay so small and vulnerable on their bed, cradling her belly. He wanted to argue, instinct told him to, but his father's words were still fresh in mind. "Be her comfort," he'd said. _I can't comfort her very well if I'm away from her_ , part of him argued. _But I won't calm her at all if I'm here when she doesn't want me here_.

With calm silence which was very difficult to uphold, Robb turned and moved towards the door, shutting it silently behind him. Sylvia sniffled. She wondered if it would hurt less if he had just slammed it.

* * *

 

The northern boy stood outside, pulled up a nearby bench and made ready for a rather long wait. He should be in there with her, part of him seethed. Hours rolled by, the light from the windows stretched far across the floor and many came to inquire about Sylvia and their child. His sisters and brothers came, but were shy and cautious after witnessing their brother's madness. He was embarrassed by that now as he looked back, especially as Rickon clung to Sansa's side and eyed him carefully. His mother kept him company for a time, too, and she understood better than his siblings what was happening with Sylvia. She was more than happy to lend an ear when Sylvia refused to let her into the room. But, too soon, they all left to do their duties or lessons, leaving Robb alone.

His father came once, sometime around midday when he was free. He hardly said a word, but just having father there with him was enough. Robb was not ashamed when his father finally saw his resolve break, and saw as he rested his elbows on his knees, tears stinting his eyes. Eddard was quiet, allowing his son a moment of weakness, before Robb straightened, his eyes reddened, but dry. 

Ser Ravenback, Sylvia's old hedge knight, and the maidservant she had gained as a wedding present from her uncle came to visit—they came for Sylvia more than him. But Sylvia refused to see any of them. While his mother tacitly admonished Sylvia's unladylike attitude, Robb rather preferred it. It was somewhat comforting to know he was not the only one she was shutting out.

Through the day, only Maester Luwin and Septon Chayle were permitted to enter the chamber, although Robb angrily put a stop to the septon's visits the second time he'd tried to enter the room. A septon was known to comfort the sick and dying when no Silent Sister is about to do the deed. Sylvia wasn't _dying_ ; he wouldn't let this man make her think otherwise with his presence. Syl wasn't going to die, she _couldn't_ , their baby would need her when she was born, he _needed_ her...she just couldn't leave the world.

Every hour, Maester Luwin would come to see Sylvia with teas or a tray of food, giving him and firm pat on the shoulder before entering their chamber. Through the wood of the door between them, Robb heard every sigh, every sniffle, and every creak from the bed. Robb treasured those gentle noises, the mundane sounds proving to him she was alive beyond the door that separated them. Every time the old man came out, Robb shot to his feet and demanded to know if she was well, if she wanted to see him, or if the child was giving her more pains. His old teacher would sigh, and assure him Sylvia was all right, that the child still had not decided to come into the world and that she was without pain or discomfort. The assurances were calming, but still Robb wished she wound ask for him, just once, just for a moment. Oddly, he began to feel...accessory. A faceless presence she had no need of in this time of crisis. Foolish as it was, it was what part of him felt.

Finally, when the torches burned bright and supper had been served, the wise maester appeared from the room for the last time, but didn't close the door as he typically did.

"She's asked to see you," he said. "But don't upset her; she's had a long day." Robb heard no more, and rushed into the room, elation and relief warm in his chest when he saw his wife's form.

Sylvia lay exactly as he'd left her that morning, stiff as a board and watching the stones above her intently. Her little feet peeked out from beneath the blankets, wiggling and stretching absently. Her hair was unbound and tumbling down her shoulders, over her breasts in soft, dark waves. Her soft hands rubbed gently across her belly, in those slow, decided touches that never failed to ease. He wanted to kiss her, to remember without worry that she was there.

"Syl," she looked up as he hurriedly moved towards the bed, his boots scraping against the stone heavily. "Syl," he murmured as one small hand pulled from her swollen midsection to reach out for his. He took it eagerly, the warmth from her hands melting the ice in his. "Sylvia, w-what—a-are you hurting? The child, is he moving? Will you be all right?"

The young wife looked down at their entwined fingers, licking her dry lips and hoping her husband would understand her. She didn't want to think about it anymore—she was sick with worry all day, she hadn't gotten any rest. Lost in her head, alone with her guilt and fear for hours. And it was all of her doing. She _hated_ it. Sharing those fears with Robb felt like breathing more life into them, and at least until morning, Sylvia wanted to forget them, bury them for a while. When she looked up again, Robb _really_ took notice of how tired she looked, her face pulled into a sad frown. This ignited his queries all the more, with greater fervour.

She spoke before he could, voice firm despite her feeble demeanour. "Robb, please, _please_ don't ask anymore. All that the maester has told you, he's told me. Just...sit with me."

"But we shou—" he tried to protest.

"If you want to talk about this, talk to someone else. Not me. Not _yet_. _Please_. Distract me a while. Distract us both. I think we need it." She pleaded, tightening her grip on his fingers. The young lordling wanted to protest further, wanted to ask her how she could sound so cold, so distant. But...he looked down at her belly...

He kept silent for now, for her, for their baby. Robb licked his lips and climbed into bed with her, propped up against the headboard uncomfortably. Sylvia sighed gratefully, and shifted closer to his side, her arm flinging across his waist, as one leg wormed between his. Sleep would come for them both in time, but for now, they only pretended to sleep for the other's benefit.

* * *

_Four days later_

"No, _no_! I won't do it!" Sylvia shrieked, flinching back as she stared at the ugly black worms, wriggling about in their jar. Maester Luwin, Septon Chayle, and even Robb shared a collective sigh at her refusal. Four days had passed since that long night, and for three days, Sylvia had taken every tea, every potion and had eaten the herbs given to her to soothe her body back from rejecting her baby. But now she refused to accept the most basic treatment: leeching. Leeching would cleanse her womb, Maester Luwin said, take the tainted blood out, and leave the good blood, and it wouldn't harm the child; yet she refused to hear of it, watching them as if they were mad.

"My lady," began the maester gently, "There is only so much, potions and teas can do for you. Leeches will cleanse your womb of whatever ailment nearly took your child, and so it is essential—"

"No! I told you, I-I won't let you. The teas have worked, I feel better. I-I don't need leeches." She knew she sounded desperate, but she was past care. By the fireplace, across from the bed, Robb's fingers clenched around the fabric of his sleeve as he glared down at the rushes lining the floor.

"If you're worried for the child, lady, do not fear. Leeches detach themselves, and never take too much." Septon Chayle offered. Chayle was a librarian, not a healer, but Robb thought if the news came from someone of Sylvia's faith, someone of the Seven who she trusted, _then_ she would take this unpleasant treatment better. Robb knew his wife, knew she despised creepy crawly things and that getting her to take the leeching was difficult at _best_.

"I'm not worried _they'll take too much_ ," she growled tersely, "I don't want them, and I don't _need_ them!" Her cheeks flushed in anger barely contained, the restless child in her belly squirming and kicking harshly in response to her mother's distress. They were mad for thinking she would agree.

Before the fireplace, Robb clenched his jaw in frustration, uncrossing his arms to let them fall at his sides. He knew better. She didn't _want_ them because she was disgusted by the creatures, _not_ because she didn't need them.

He found himself growing angry looking at her, glaring at the septon as though he were a thorn in her side, her fingers clenched angrily at her sides. Anger was the only emotion that she seemed capable of in the four days—anger at him, at Maester Luwin, at Elane, Sansa, at everyone and everything, for the smallest of offenses. Yesterday morning, Sansa hurried from the chamber near tears because Sylvia slapped her hand away from her belly. When confronted on it, Sylvia had tensely admitted to him she shouldn't have been so harsh, but that Sansa should _ask_ before laying hands on her. 

Robb steadily grew more irate with everyday that passed. After that horrid night, she would even flinch away from his touch, like he revolted her, to the point where now he wondered why he tried.

His wife's small hand reached up and rubbed along the top of her protruding belly. There was another thing, he thought darkly, Sylvia hadn't talked about the baby with him since the night she'd nearly lost it. Sylvia, who once so cheerily talked about their child, now avoided the subject and briskly rebuffed him when he tried to bring it up. He wanted to hear her words about their baby, more than ever before and with a desperate, painful need that only grew stronger. He had to know she was all right, and that their baby would come out screaming as he should, not from the maester or from an outsider repeating things heard. Hearing _her_ voice say these things, believing them, would comfort him better than hearing it from anyone else, because he loved her most of all.

The thought of being without her was unbearable, and he needed now more than ever, to touch her, to feel her heartbeat beneath his palm, to feel the telltale kick from their restless child, to be reminded she was here still.

The words between them for the four nights were small, meaningless words to fill the endless quiet. Robb didn't understand. Death nearly took away their child and could have taken her as well. He knew she knew this, she was no fool; yet she seemed to abhor talking to him and now refused to do the necessary to protect their child. And so, out of pure emotional torment, Robb hissed out, "Yes you _do_ need them. You've not given us a moment's _peace_ since that night. If the leeches will calm you, _take_ _them_."

Sylvia looked up at her husband, outrage colouring her features a light pink. "I won't take them! I've no need of them, how can you—"

"Alright, my lady, peace." Maester Luwin broke in, halting the oncoming fight between husband and wife. "Peace, my lord and lady. We cannot force Sylvia to take the leeching, and it would not be wise to attempt it." He spoke softly to Robb. The young man never broke his glare from his wife. He looked to Sylvia, who was glowering right back. "We will take our leave now. Come, septon." With that, he and Septon Chayle left the chamber with the gentle shut from the door.

"How can you _not_ take them—for _the baby?"_ Robb demanded at once.

For a moment, Sylvia was struck speechless at his words, but she found her words relatively quick. "I don't _want_ them, Robb. You _know_ why I can't stand the sight of them. And the teas and oils have been working just fine!" she retorted.

"What if they stopped working? What if you started getting the contractions again?! What if you _needed_ to take the leeches? Would you refuse then?"

" _Of course_ I would, if I _had_ to!"

"How do you know for sure you _don't_ need them?" he countered. She opened her mouth to retort that just last night, before he returned to their chambers, Maester Luwin said she was likely due to cease the course of foul tasting herbal teas he had her on. She'd taken that as assurance that all the child required now was rest, but he'd come back the following afternoon with bloody leeches. But before she could explain, Robb spoke again. "So how can you make this choice without me? He is _my_  child too, and I cannot let you chance him _or_ yourself because you are being a selfish fool—"

" _How dare you?!"_   his wife screamed, a betrayed, hurt look in her face—one which he had only seen once before, at their wedding when her father humiliated her. That look pulled at his anger, receded it back a little like a wave lapping upon the shore. It was still there, his anger, but he wished he never caused that broken look on her face. Tears welled in her ocean blue eyes and Robb knew for certain, he had truly hurt her. "How can you—? We, I..." she gasped, her voice cracking in an effort not to cry. "You...get out." She sniffed, her hand rising to her face, either to hide her eyes, or wipe them dry, before dropping back down.

"Syl—I" he tried. He wanted to take it back, wanted to beg her forgiveness and just have things go back to the way it was, before this scare. But he was still angry, still stressed, still afraid for her and their babe, and his words came out rough and harsh sounding. His feet moved him towards her, to beside the bed where he always should have been, and Robb felt his stomach ache when she shifted away. "Syl, I'm sorry—" Robb wasn't the type of man to apologize for speaking his mind, but all men were different when it came to the woman who held their heart, and who carried their child.

" _Go away!"_ she cried, her eyes flashing back up at him. She stared up at him a moment, her lower lip trembling and tears in her eyes refusing to be shed. Almost at once she broke the contact and shoved him as hard as she could with her weaker body. Robb stumbled back a little. "Go away." She said again, calmer this time, but her voice thick with held back tears.

His heart told him to stay with her, and for so long, he'd always known leaving a weeping lady was the wrong thing to do. But now he was torn. She so clearly did not want him there with her, and he didn't want to upset her anymore so as not to provoke more pains. But...he loved her...

With fast feet, common for those who are angry, Robb moved towards the door, jerking it open and swinging it shut with a loud bang.

* * *

When Robb left her, more tears came—big fat droplets rolling down her cheeks, itching and embarrassing. Father _hated_ crying, she remembered with misery. He'd been so unforgiving when she and Joffrey were children, more so with Joffrey than with her. "You're a prince, and princes don't cry!" he had bellowed. His loud angry voice had only made her brother cry harder, and the coming blow would make him scream. So they silently developed a rule as they grew: never cry, at least not before father. It was the only thing they'd ever had in common. _Being married has made me weak_ , she thought.

_Come back_ , she wanted to cry out to him. _Come back, stay with me, forgive me._ But her lips couldn't move to say the words.

"Selfish fool," he'd called her. He'd hurt her, challenged her devotion to her baby, and she was so _angry_ at him for that. How dare he? He didn't know what it felt like to feel it move, how it felt to know you housed life inside you, to know you helped create that life. He didn't and wouldn't understand the responsibility thrust upon her. 

Things between them had been cold since that night and she didn't know how to fix it. He didn't seem to blame her, but that little fact could change as quickly as the tide. Like it just had. She sniffled.

Her baby suddenly landed a hard kick to her side, causing her to flinch at the roughness of such a tiny thing. The action which used to bring complaints at the discomfort, now only brought relief laced with regret and misery.

_Keep that up, little one,_ she thought sullenly, _and maybe your father will realize he's wrong_. Her child...Robb's child...

Was she selfish? _Would it have been so horrible,_ she wondered, _to have allowed them to do what they wanted?_ But when she thought of those wriggling black worms, she knew she wouldn't consent. The thought of those ugly creatures moving and attaching to the delicate skin of her belly and womanhood made her skin crawl. With sharp clarity, she remembered an incident when Joffrey was little and had taken a jar of leeches from Grand Maester Pycelle, and then promptly put them (still alive and wriggling), into a cup of water she'd been drinking.

_I feel fine_ , she thought as she rubbed a hand over her bulging midsection. She felt as she did seven nights before: fat, puffy, sore in the back and knees, and restless. Her baby was moving every day, pushing its legs out through her skin, stretching and rolling and healthy. It was almost as though nothing had happened. Sylvia sniffled, her tears slowing finally.

_What in the seven hells would leeches do, anyhow?_ She thought with sudden anger. Just imagining those things on her made her heart beat harder and anxiety rise from within her belly; they could bring the pains again, and she would never risk her child for her husband's assurance, no matter how much it grieved him. He was angry at her for this, she knew it. The look in his eyes...he had wanted to say more, to ask why she wouldn't do this for their baby, for him, like she was betraying him—and perhaps she was in a way, by not discussing their options with him. But it was _for_ their baby why she wouldn't...she didn't trust her traitorous body, not now, not anymore.

She felt normal now, and didn't want to aggravate the delicate state of calm. She was right...wasn't she?

Sylvia sighed tiredly and rubbed her face. She was tired of worrying, of thinking about everything that could go wrong, and everything she believed to be in Robb's head that kept her from talking to him. She cleaned away the last trace of her tears, sniffling.

* * *

Hours passed her by in that room, long and tedious, and Robb still had not come back.

Her tears dried and her eyes lost their redness, but try as she might, she couldn't get the argument out of her head. She lingered on the harsh words said between them, the way it had felt when she shoved him, the way he'd looked, all those emotions bubbling inside her. Sylvia doubted her choices now more than ever, now that her husband had pointed out his own uncertainties about them. But still, she didn't _feel_ entirely wrong.

Sansa, setting aside her own anger at Sylvia, came by to practice her social graces on her horrid good-sister for an hour, before leaving with her septa. And like the perfect lady _Sylvia_ was meant to be, she accepted her company.

Maester Luwin had come back to give her some sweet tea, and once again inquire about the leeching he was so intent on. She didn't change her answer.

Ser Fredrick came and thankfully her dear knight didn't inquire about her unwillingness to take the leeches. He knew what Joffrey had done all those years ago—he had been the one she cried to, since everyone else thought the leeches in her cup was just a bit of silliness. Her sweet knight only played cards with her and nothing more, and she loved him for that. But far too soon, he left her.

The only thing that made the time between visitors tolerable was her sewing. Carefully, she pulled her needle in and out of the fine linen fabric, crafting a simple garment for her baby to be clothed in. A lady of her status usually has a seamstress or a wet-nurse to take care of all the clothes her child would ever need, but Sylvia had nothing better to do all day, and it was rumoured that Lady Catelyn made all of her baby's clothes by hand herself. Sylvia never wanted to be in Lady Catelyn's shadow, to appear lesser than the woman, which is also why she tolerated visitors. Her own mother had spent all her marriage in another woman's shadow, and here, where she was an outsider, she had to prove herself.

When she was partway done with the little dress, the heavily pregnant princess laid her work on her belly, wondering if the garment would fit well, if the fabric would chafe her baby's delicate skin, or if her baby would ever wear it. Sylvia sniffled, and began to carefully fold the small bundle of cloth. Would her baby ever get the chance to wear the clothes she'd made it? Would it survive, she wondered with agony. Her hands trembled as she set down the small bundle by her side.

She needed someone, she needed...something she felt empty without. She wanted her mother. Yes, that is who she needed. Her mother was strong, and had four children and would know exactly what to say to make her feel better. She always had before, when she tried. Sylvia felt an old familiar ache flare up inside her again, at remembering that her mother wouldn't be by her side anytime soon. Warm tears dripped down her cheeks, and fell onto her chest. About to be a mother herself, and still she wished for her own so desperately.

A gentle knock at the door brought her out of her head, and she hurried to dry her eyes. Her cold fingers were hot on her cheeks, and hurriedly she pulled her warm furs up under her breasts for modesty's sake. The door slowly creaked open, the gentle scrape of leather sole against stone, and Sylvia looked up, smiling a shaky smile at kind Lady Catelyn. If her good-mother took notice of the redness of her eyes or the wobbliness of her smile, thankfully, she did not say.

They exchanged fond pleasantries, and Sylvia was so grateful for the distraction. Like her dear knight, Lady Catelyn didn't bring up the leeching, thank the gods, but still Sylvia prepared herself for it. Lady Catelyn was a determined woman, she knew right from wrong, and would defend the integrity of her beliefs till the end. And she was Robb's mother, and was likely to take her son's side no matter what.

They poured themselves hot lavender tea, a type that was not common around Winterfell, but when she took to bed, Robb had sent away for it, knowing it was her favorite. She had never thanked him for that.

A little while later, Lady Catelyn steered their conversation to harsher waters, treading carefully but not careful enough. "Have you thought of names yet?" Catelyn asked, nodding to her swollen belly.

Sylvia drew in a deep breath to stop the hurt. Her eyed followed her hands as they rubbed across her belly and felt a gentle prod up into her ribs. "W-well," she began unsteadily. She cleared her throat daintily. "We thought of a few, but we-we couldn't agree on any. There was...R-Robert and..." tears began shining in her eyes, and in a feeble attempt to hide them, she looked away. "And Myra and Jeyne, and maybe even Da—" she broke off, unable to find the voice to continue. She began to cry quietly, all the events of the last few days finally settling down on her.

It was the first time she talked about her baby like there was nothing wrong, since that night.

"Sylvia?" her good mother prodded worriedly. Sylvia looked up at her, vulnerable as a little girl, unable to articulate what she felt, only able to pray that the warm woman understood, as mothers often do. Catelyn took her hand between both of hers, squeezing firmly enough that she was able to feel her good-daughter's rapid heartbeat. Sylvia loved Lady Catelyn dearly, she was always so kind to her, so understanding and gentle and she trusted her. "Sylvia what is the matter?"

The onyx haired girl sniffled, a hand coming up to brush away a tear at the tip of her nose, and pulled in deep shuddering breaths. It was a few moments before she could speak her voice fragile as glass. "I...I'm frightened."

"Of what?"

"I can't... _this room!_ It's driving me mad just _lying_ _here day and night!_ And Robb, he-he wants me to take the leeches, and I'm afraid if...if I get too _upset_ I'll lose my baby. But Robb doesn't see it that way, he thinks I'm a fool and selfish, and I think he might—" she broke off panting.

"Shh, be calm." Catelyn murmured, warming Sylvia's hands in hers. "Calm." The Lady of Winterfell was taken aback by Sylvia's fright, but she had five children of her own, so calming a hysteric child was nothing new. But this girl was not her child, and never would be, no matter how much affection Catelyn had for her.

The king's daughter dried her cheeks and released a shuddering breath. "I was so _sure_ before—I knew leeching was not the way. But now...now I don't know." She went on, her voice a little more resolute.

"You're afraid. Fear is crippling sometimes, especially when you are alone with it." The woman with auburn hair assured firmly. She rubbed her older hands against the younger girls'. "Have you spoken with Robb about this?"

"No." She sighed. "Robb...he could never understand. If I...I'm the mother, I'm meant to _protect_ our baby, and I haven't. He already thinks me selfish, and a fool to boot." She finally whispered sadly.

"Oh, my sweet," Catelyn began in a tender voice. "Robb would never for a moment believe that. He is afraid as well. You and the babe were in danger, and he could do nothing. My father, I am told, would wear out his boots for all the pacing he did, when my own mother was lying abed." Sylvia looked up, uncertainty in her eyes. Lady Catelyn's face had grown a little harder, a small crease forming between her brows.

"Y...your mother had to lie in as well?" Sylvia asked lowly. She knew little of Catelyn's mother—she knew only that she was of House Whent, had married Hoster Tully and had three children—Catelyn, Lysa and Edmure. Septa Bryda had never told her about Lady Tully's troubles, but then it wasn't a septa's job to teach a child gossip.

"Many times." The lady said. "My mother, Minisa, lost many children—some early on, but others were lost in birth and the last time, my brother took our mother with him." She looked down at her lap, lost in a very vague memory. The auburn haired woman remembered little of her mother, but she remembered enough that it still pinched her heart to have lost her. "She would try her hardest to keep her children alive," she recalled, "But of many pregnancies, she only had three children." She paused. "My mother, was the strongest kind of woman, my father told me once. To have lost so much, yet still be sound of mind and have a gentle heart is a rare feat. I hardly remember her, but I hope I've made her proud."

There was a long stretch of silence, where Sylvia was at loss of what to say. Finally she murmured, "Your mother sounds very wonderful." It was lame to her ears, but she knew Lady Catelyn appreciated the words by the soft smile on her lips. "It isn't fair." She murmured.

Catelyn thought a moment. "No it isn't. My mother tried everything to keep her children but sometimes there are things that only the gods decide on, things we have no word in...But about the leeching," Sylvia looked away. "I don't know why you've refused, but you'll not hear me trying to persuade you. You are no fool, Sylvia; you'll not gamble your child on a whim."

The onyx haired girl sniffed and nodded. "Thank you." Her good-mother's words were so good to her ears, so welcome after hearing petty chirps from Sansa or insistent orders from Maester Luwin or Robb. But there was still more words to say. "Before the pains happened, I...I didn't feel anything was wrong." She looked up at Lady Catelyn's face, feeling small as a child. "I woke up, uncomfortable in my back, and even that is nothing unusual. I should have known something was to happen, I should have felt it, shouldn't I?" this was what battered her heart at night, wondering if she should have known, and if she was somehow to blame for not noticing anything wrong.

"How could you have known? I noticed nothing amiss when I saw you before all this. There is no real way to know what child will thrive and which one will fail. You are not to blame, Sylvia." The lady enunciated firmly. Sylvia nodded, letting the words sink in through her skin, into her bones and into her soul. "Sometimes there is no one to blame, no matter how much you need to."

_Not to blame, not to blame, not to blame._.. how odd that sounded after days of thinking it was her fault.

"Robb is just outside the door. He hasn't left all day." Lady Catelyn broke in, picking her cup of tea back up from the table, and taking a dainty sip.

"He hasn't?" Sylvia asked curiously.

"Not a moment. Should I let him in? I'm sure you have a lot to talk about."

Sylvia thought a moment. Then nodded.

* * *

When he came in, Robb suddenly felt very foolish as his mother passed him by. There lay his wife, belly round and swollen with child, and when he last saw her, he had hurt her. The entire argument seemed small and so stupid, blown out of proportion from high emotions. She had needed him, even when she tried to act as though she didn't, and he had gone along with it—left her alone, really.

She looked like she'd been crying—Sylvia who never cried. She looked scared and vulnerable. A softness came to his eyes, as she smiled shakily at him.

Slowly, quietly, Robb sat down with her, her hand clinging to his. And he stayed with her.

* * *

The screaming of an infant was a foreign sound in Winterfell's halls. The shrill wail had not been heard since little Rickon was born many years before. The bells rang above in the tower, announcing to the world that Robb Stark's heir was born healthy. The smallfolk rejoiced the arrival, preparing a fine feast in celebration of the lordling's child, as the news spread through the north.

It had been many weeks since Sylvia awoke to pains in her abdomen and weeks since she had been shackled to her bed for the good of her child. In that time, her fear and guilt had waned quite a bit—it no longer kept her from her husband, and no longer held an ugly storm cloud over her head. But she let go of all that now, as she watched Robb hold their daughter, all swaddled up in her warm blankets, sound asleep.

When the midwife burst from the room and announced to the waiting Starks that Sylvia had given Robb a healthy baby girl, they'd been a bit surprised. Everyone had believed there to be a boy in Sylvia's belly, a boy which would secure Robb's reign as Lord Stark of Winterfell entirely. But there was peace in Westeros, and so no one was too upset by the birth of Robb's daughter, instead of a son.

Sylvia lay in her bed, hair a mess, skin still flushed and damp from the birth that happened not even an hour ago, and the last of the bloodied bedclothes were being taken from the chamber. But she was happy. So amazingly happy.

"She's so tiny." Her sweet husband whispered, a smile stretching across his handsome face.

"She didn't _feel_ so tiny." She replied, a gentle laugh. It had _hurt_ , much, much more than she ever thought she could handle. Robb wasn't permitted in the room, the midwife, septa Mordane and Lady Catelyn barred him from the doors, and kept him from his wife no matter how badly he wanted to be there with her.

Sylvia had wished he had been there, holding her hand, instead of his mother. In the early months of her pregnancy, when she felt fatter than a cow, she had told him to stay away from the birthing room, not wanting Robb to see her in such an ungodly state. Yet as the hours passed and one day bled into the next, and she screamed and clawed at the bed sheets, she wished more than anything that Robb was beside her. Maester Luwin was kind enough, but he was not her husband.

She thought she would die; surely nothing that hurt that much would allow her to live and by the end, death seemed almost a mercy. She wept for her mother. She had thought she couldn't go on, and then Maester Luwin pulled the baby from her body and she saw her for the first time.

Such a perfect little thing, dark wispy hair on her small soft head, long little fingers, bright blue eyes, a perfect little face with round cheeks and full lips and wide eyes. All the fear and guilt and worry meant next to nothing now, because there she was—the one who'd been kicking her for months. Everything was peaceful, everything made sense. Everything seemed _right_. And It didn't matter that her baby was a girl and not a boy as she and Robb had wanted, because she was _hers_. She was a mother. She was _her_ mother, and she would protect her with everything she had.

"Come, lay with me." She asked softly. He looked at her, and suddenly she was struck by how beautiful he was, how wonderful he was. Her heart swelled with love.

Her husband walk around the bed, and over to the extra space on the other side of her, the little child still asleep in his arms, his amazed eyes hardly leaving the baby's face. Wordlessly, he slipped into bed with her, boots and all, gently cradling the infant in one arm. Her heart beat worriedly in her breast, the image of the sleeping bundle slipping from his arms and falling harshly onto the bed, suddenly flashing in her mind. She almost snapped at him to be careful, but he was already seated beside her, the baby still asleep.

Robb came close beside his wife, hardly disturbing his daughter as he pulled her mother close. Sylvia's pale skin was damp against his, but he hardly minded. He shifted the newborn again, earning a sweet coo from the nameless baby, and handed her back to Sylvia's waiting arms. The princess adored the feel of her child in her arms, the light weight of her, the smell of her, the warmth from her delicate skin...she loved her.

Sylvia raised her hand, and carefully, afraid she might disturb her sleeping baby, brushed her hand against the feather soft dark hair on her little head. Gods she was so perfect. She couldn't imagine being without her. She never knew it was possible to love something _so_ much after _so_ much pain.

"We're a family now. The three of us." She lifted her head and smiled at Robb. This moment felt so sweet, so worth it, such a release of all the fear that had no merit now. Here was the fruit of their work and worry, a beautiful healthy baby girl. Robb grinned back and kissed her hair, inhaling the scent of her hair.

"I love you." He whispered to her, rubbing his thumb on her bare arm. There was nothing else to it; he simply loved her more than anything in that moment. She'd given him everything he could have possibly hoped for and more. She was perfect in his eyes, the sun in the winter.

"I love _you_." She smiled. That vow seemed even truer now that they held their child in their arms, a gift they had given each other, the little thing that would forever link them, across oceans of time, this fact would _always_ be. They created this perfect little thing together. "She needs a name." She reminded him. "What should we call her?" she whispered, now rubbing her daughter's tiny hand with her pointer finger, counting the little fingers on her hand for the second time. That was strange: _her daughter_. Robb reached out, and felt along the blanket by her baby legs, until he found a small foot.

"Darla?" Robb suggested jokingly. Sylvia gave him a sharp look, which made him laugh. "I'm joking, sweetheart. But it does have its charms, you must agree."

"It has _little_ in the way of real charms," she muttered in distaste. "This little beauty needs herself a proper name." 

"Alright, what do you think?" he asked. Sylvia looked up, and thought about all the names she'd collected in the last months. A small smile graced her lips as she thought of the woman who still had a sound mind and a gentle heart after everything she'd gone through. Robb didn't notice her smile and went on. "With your meticulousness, she'll not have a name until she's at least three. Shall we just call her 'Baby' till then?" He mocked.

"I like Minisa." Sylvia said. Robb looked at her, frowning curiously. She never mentioned that name before.

"Minisa?" The name was familiar, and it took him a second to remember who possessed it before. His mother's mother...

"Yes. For your grandmother. You have to agree, it does have its charms." She grinned.

After a moment, Robb gave her an uncertain smile, and then looked at the babe in her arms. "Minisa." He tried. The little one shifted and cooed, her fingers clenching and unclenching in her sleep. He rubbed her tiny feet, and smiled. "Hello Mini."

 


	10. Winter Is Coming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The loyal Hand...dead...fever...King and his royal and noble court...to Winterfell..."

**Chapter 7: Winter is Coming**

The queen of the Seven Kingdoms could hear the tolling of the bells outside the Red Keep's walls, a continuous chime that told the world of the death of Jon Arryn.

The Hand of the king was dead; his body stiff and rotting lay out in the throne room as the Silent Sisters prepared it for burial. A fever took him, mysterious and quick, and hopefully, it was quick enough. She had no love for Jon Arryn, scheming foul old man he was. He would have ruined everything, would have thrust the country into war if he told someone. Cersei prayed the old creature died before he could breathe a foul word.

It'd be the end of all of them if he did; the end of her, her family's legacy, and most importantly, her children. Even Sylvia, who was Robert's and had married the Stark heir, was in danger. Robert hated the Targaryen babes for only belonging to the same _family_ as Rhaegar, and he'd had them slaughtered in their sleep. What would he do to _her_ children if he knew the truth? Cersei knew him well enough. She knew that he would murder even Sylvia. Fury hot as wildfire rose within her. She wanted to kill him, bring Joffrey into his throne, and eliminate any threat before it happened. But that would be unwise, and all good things come to those who wait. But Robert made waiting very hard.

Her fingers clenched tight, her nail digging into her palms. Robert, she thought, her _husband_ , her _king_. She'd had such hope that he would make a good king—he was strong and fierce. A conqueror, a warrior and liberator. Those hopes and fancies were long dead. The king was a drunken oaf, incapable of tact or grace or discretion, hateful and furious when it was never called for.

Jon Arryn's body was hardly cold before Robert chose his next Hand: Eddard Stark. She suggested her father, but when had Robert ever done what she wanted?

Robert considered Lord Stark a friend, a confidant. He loved the northerner more than his two trueborn brothers. The fat fool trusted him, but Cersei did not. Of what she knew of Lord Eddard and from the few times she'd met him, he was the painfully honourable sort, who kissed the ground the king stepped on. Not only that, he'd turned her daughter against her, turned her into their creature. But, if he was to be Hand of the king, it would be wise to gain his loyalty. He would not be easily persuaded into keeping her faith. But she could be _very_ persuasive.

The sound of booted footsteps caught her attention, and she just knew it was her brother, her sweet Jaime. She somehow... _felt_ it was Jaime because her soul sung in relief when he was near. Her other half had come back to her again, and she knew it without needing to see it.

"As your brother, I feel it is my duty to inform you," he grinned as he took place beside her. "You _worry_ too much. It's starting to show." Her fury subsided as he spoke, a dear sense of calm engulfing her.

"And _you_ never worry about _anything_." She replied. She envied the liberty that came with being a man, and envied Jaime for his ability not to care, where she never could seem to stop. She slept little at night, awake and toiling with her worries, fussing over every awful possibility until she finally found sleep, but morning would always come too soon. The only time she ever truly felt at ease was when her sweet brother in inside her, curled around her and keeping her safe. "When we were seven, you jumped off the cliffs of Casterly Rock. A hundred foot drop into the water." The queen recalled. "You were never afraid."

"There was nothing to _be_ afraid of, until you told father." Her twin countered. "' _We're_ _Lannister's and Lannister's don't act like fools_.'" He quoted father mockingly.

Cersei looked back at the corpse. "What if he told someone?" she wondered aloud. She wasn't afraid of prying ears—they were the only ones in the throne room, aside from the Silent Sisters who took a vow never to speak for the sake of their order.

"But who would he tell?" Jaime asked.

"My husband." She replied, a crease between her brows.

"If he told the king, our heads would be skewered at the city gates by now. Whatever Jon Arryn knew, or didn't know died with him." The kingslayer assured steadily. "And Robert will choose a new Hand to do his job while he eats, drinks and fucks everything in sight." His heart warmed when he saw his sister's lips twitch up into a smile. "And life will go on."

" _You_ should be Hand of the King." She thought aloud. The thought was sweet—she would get to see Jaime more, he would gain larger, more _private_ accommodations and she could trust him. Having her sweet twin on the small council would give her (more reliable) eyes and ears on the king's doings, _and_ would give her a voice. But alas, it was never to be. Jaime wasn't serious enough, smirking at everything, laughing at fear and regret. He was too bold, with no mind for politics. Jaime was a handsome fool, better suited to have a sword in his hand.

"That's an honour I could do without. Their days are too long, their lives are too short." Jaime muttered, casting a short look at the Hand's corpse.

"It's no matter." She sighed. "Robert's chosen Ned Stark as his new Hand. We'll be riding off again to that cold waste before long." Cersei said with an undertone of bitterness in her words. She hated the north—it was cold, it was ugly, and worst of all, her daughter lived there, quite happily if her letters were any indication. And a child had been born _already_.

Cersei had grieved when she learned her daughter was with child, only just a year after wedding the Stark boy. Her poor girl never had a chance. She'd tried to protect her, to teach her to guard herself from disappointment and heartbreak, but how could Cersei shield her daughter from _this_? Did Sylvia think her heart was safe, that Robb Stark would never betray her now that she'd bore him a child? No, Cersei thought dismissively remembering Robert and his whores. A man's love is worthless for it is often fickle. Only your family, you could put your faith in—a fact her daughter didn't know yet. The night she'd heard the news, the queen wept in her chambers, on her own, neither Robert nor Jaime at her side.

"The children are coming with us this time. They're old enough to travel far. When they _see_ Sylvia—"

"They'll say she favors her father, the way the others favour you." Jamie replied. The kingslayer did not relish in the thought of seeing his odd little niece again—but she wasn't so little anymore was she? Married and mother to Robb Stark's whelp. Like Robert, she wasted no time in breeding. Her paternity caused his sister restless nights and long cold mornings, growing his disdain for the black haired girl larger and larger. Would that she was forgotten in the frozen shit pile that was the north, or even born fair haired so that Cersei may love her without worry. Sadly, she was born from Robert, the drunken pig, and even born from Robert, Cersei loved her. For whatever daft reason.

"Will they? Jon Arryn found out, who's to say someone else won't? Especially with Sylvia to compare them to."

"You don't seem so pleased about seeing your daughter again." Jaime drawled mordantly. "Or meeting your grandchild."

Cersei cast him a weary look. He knew why she was hesitant to talk about her daughter's daughter. It hardly seemed real to her that her own first born had a child of her own, and so _quickly_. It was a little girl they called Minisa, with black hair and the cold blue eyes of the north. _The baby favours her mother_ , her friend in the north told her, as though she truly cared for the babe's features. It came from Sylvia, which was all that mattered.

The golden haired queen held back a grimace. She felt very old when she thought of Minisa. Women twice her age were grandmothers. Old ugly women with saggy teats and grey hair. Not queens as young and beautiful as she. Sylvia was little more than a child herself; she had no business playing at being a mother. _But she was_ , the queen reminded herself. A mother and a wife...and still a child, foolish yet and naive.

Joffrey is no fool, she found herself thinking. He's inherited Jaime's cleverness while Sylvia has gained Robert's foolish reliance on love. Sylvia could not be faulted; Robert shipped her away before she could teach her daughter the ways of the world.

"It's the frozen waste I despise," the queen continued, "Not Sylvia." For a moment, the queen almost enjoyed the dark look of disdain which flittered in her sweet brother's eyes. Since her _conception_ , Jaime had not been silent in his detest for her daughter. Cersei loathed it; part of her was infuriated that Jaime could not love the child that came from her, but the other part of her knew why he hated Sylvia so. Jaime loved her with all his heart, but he hated Robert just as much. Sylvia was from Robert, and just for that, her twin hated the child, even though she'd come from Cersei too. It had caused many an argument between them, but over the years, the queen had become increasingly more tolerant of her lover's abhorrence for her child.

"Let us hope the north agrees with Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella, as it does with Sylvia." Jaime said before he pushed off the stone pillar and tramped down the walkway. The queen turned back and continued to watch the Silent Sisters prepare the Hand for burial.

* * *

Sylvia remained abed for a few days after the birth to recover, and to reduce the risk of illness the pain of labour usually brought upon women. The worry for such affliction faded as she held her newborn daughter close to her, staring into her perfect little face with pure amazement and adoration. For a few days she was unbothered with her duties as 'little Lady Stark', and free to just be... _Sylvia_ , Mini's mother. She was free to study her for hours without interruption, to feed her, and hold her close and wonder of the future. Nothing ever felt as natural as when Mini took her nipple and began to nurse. Hours passed her by and she had no notice of them, her focus was trained solely on the little baby she'd brought into the world.

Minisa was such a happy little thing, always smiling up at her, content to chew on her mother's fingers or lay on her or Robb's chest. One could argue a mother's bias, but those who met the babe could not muster a word to say otherwise. 

Six moons passed them by, and Mini grew as all babies do into an infant, growing stronger everyday and learning from the world around her. The Starks watched the months go by without care or thought to what the future may bring. Things were peaceful in the north, and as the troubles in the Capitol were often so silent, there were only the ghosts of whispers to hear, there was no indication anything was amiss.

The only thing Sylvia had to worry over, was her daughter's teething, or if it would be difficult to get her back to sleep at night. Like on this night.

With a groan, Sylvia threw off the wonderfully warm blankets and furs, shivering as the cold air swept over her shift protected body. The stone floor was cold as ice, and when her feet touched it, she thought her toes were like to snap off. In the south, women of status had servants to tend to their children in the night, and nurses to feed their babies whilst they enjoyed life's pleasures. But northerners were not southerners, and Sylvia was not a southern lady. Not any longer.

Motherhood had changed Sylvia Stark. Her life had been altered forever by one tiny little babe who had the cool blue eyes of her father, and the inky black hair of her mother's family. Her decisions were now made with her daughter in mind; her worries now gravitated towards Mini, her frustrations, her attention, her time now revolved around her child, quite a marvel, but also a bother. It was exhausting, quite frankly, and there were times when she missed having her own time. 

She'd even had to set away her silver stag's antler necklace because she worried the sharp points would prick her daughter's delicate skin if she wore it. She was sad to see it shut away in a box. It was the one item of jewelry that had remained constant for her since coming from the south; it was one of the few things she still had to remind her of when she was Sylvia _Baratheon_. It was a symbol of her house. To remove it felt like snipping the roots which connected her to Storm's End. Robb thought it silly, saying she would always be a Baratheon by blood and did not need a necklace to remind her. It irked her how he didn't understand, and how he never would.

Sylvia yawned as she changed her daughter's clouts. No one had ever told her how hard it would be, how scary or how...wonderful raising a child would be. It was a shock to her, to have a little babe so dependent on her, needing her breast every few hours, needing a change, needing to be soothed, or admonished, but somehow, the absolute, untainted love she had for the babe, made all the toil and worry seem smaller—no less terrible, but worth it. Thinking back, Sylvia remembered a few times of Bryda telling her just how difficult motherhood was, but young as she was, she didn't comprehend the words entirely.

She hummed an old forgotten lullaby as she set her baby back down in the cradle. The small bit of carved wood rocked from side to side, like a boat sailing on the ocean. It had been Robb's when he was a baby at Riverrun, and when the war ended, Lady Catelyn had brought the cradle with her to Winterfell, in the hopes that the gods would give her occasion to use it again. It was used four more times by each of the Stark children, and for now, it was Mini's.

Mini squirmed a little, but calmed as her mother rocked the cradle, still humming that old tune she couldn't remember. Sylvia remembered watching her mother do this with Myrcella once, singing her to sleep before she took her other two children to court. Her voice had been very soft and gentle, not particularly beautiful, but so soothing she remembered almost slumping against Ser Fredrik as she and Joffrey waited for their mother. She'd been about five then, and had asked the queen if she would sing to her before she went to sleep. The queen smiled a tight smile at her eldest, and said, "You are far too old to need a song to sleep, sweetling. I sing to Myrcella, because she's but a babe. You are not a babe are you, my dove?" Sylvia settled for singing to herself at night, but it was the soft, gentle voice of her mother she'd wanted.

Sylvia's eyes were heavy as she mindlessly rocked the cradle, and just as she thought the baby was back asleep, Mini started to whimper again. The onyx haired girl groaned low in her throat and lifted the fussy baby from the furs lining her cradle. Her body swayed on the chair as she tried to calm the child, her eyes closed to steal a few moments of rest. When the baby's distress ignited into a furious cry, the man in the bed roused and blinked away the sleep from his eyes.

For a moment he thought Mini had woken again and was about to slip from the bed to tend to her so his wife could sleep, but he didn't feel her soft, warm body beside him as he should. Pushing himself up, he turned his head towards the cradle in search of her, and found her silhouetted figure sitting beside the crib, her arms curled around the whining babe. How long had she been there, he wondered. By the way her head tilted in weariness, he guessed long enough. The sight of her made Robb's heart ache with something he almost didn't understand. Admiration, probably.

Sylvia was about to bare her breast in the hopes that maybe the child was hungry, when suddenly, a heavy but tender hand came upon her arm and paused her gentle sway. Robb eyes almost glowed in the dim candle light, a soft look in the blue pools of water.

Robb was good to her these last few months, and _so_ good to Mini it made her love him even more. During her first few weeks of life, Sylvia worried terribly for Mini, fearful that whatever nearly took her from her womb in the seventh month would come back for her again after she was born. Sylvia was on edge for a long while, fussing over Mini and watching for any sign of ailment so obsessively, that it began to intervene in her duties.

Her fears lessened after Lady Catelyn taught and helped her to make a prayer wheel to hang over the baby's crib, but still, when the cold wind blew and the summer snows fell, she would watch Mini closer and hold her tighter. Robb loved his daughter, and loved his wife—as much as a green boy his age _could_ love a woman—so he did his best to understand the troubles of motherhood, and to perform the duties he as a father, needed to perform. For Sylvia's sake he donned a mask of complete confidence and understanding, and let his own uncertainties be known to his bastard brother or even to his father.

"Come." He murmured, gently pulling her arm to get her to stand. Sleepily, she stood without protest. Then the baby was out of her arms and over Robb's shoulder before she could voice a word. She blinked in surprise, her arms still frozen midair. "Go, sleep." He whispered. A deep sense of relief welled within her, and a warm feeling of adoration for the man before her came with it. Sylvia offered her husband a small smile and reached a soft hand up to touch his cheek.

"Thank you, my love." she murmured softly before slipping her hand away. Robb watched as she walked to the bed, pulled back the covers and crawled back beneath them.

The baby over his shoulder let out an indignant grunt. Her father rubbed at her back through her little baby's slip, and returned to the bed as well. "You must let your mother sleep, sweet girl." He told her as he moved the blankets and furs back. "It's late, it's dark, it's cold. Don't make her guess what it is you want." The baby girl only grunted again. Robb grinned and slipped back between the warm sheets, moving the babe down a bit so that she may rest against his chest. Casting a look at his wife, he found she was already asleep.

With careful movements he laid the little baby down between his legs, and began unwrapping her from the thick swaddling blankets. Sometimes she only calmed when she was not confined by layers of blankets, he remembered. The moment the last of the cotton was pulled away, his daughter stretched out in victory, her arms reaching up towards him and her feet coming to poke against his belly.

Robb Stark smiled down at his daughter, love swelling in his heart as she waved her little arms about in front of her. When she was born, she'd been the second most amazing thing he'd ever seen, coming second only to her mother, who'd gone through unimaginable pain to bring her into this world. Like his wife, he'd been in awe of the tiny baby girl, indulging in the fact all over again, that he'd helped to make her; _he'd_ put her in Sylvia's belly, a truth he was more than proud to admit. He was her father, she was his daughter. They were a family.

But Sylvia, for carrying her through all she had to go through, bringing her into the world with pain and blood, and taking care of her every day since, was incredible in itself. Even now, asleep and exhausted, Robb was in awe of his wife. She was so...strong. Stronger than he ever thought she could be.

When a yawn rose up in his throat, the auburn haired young man picked up his daughter and held her against his chest. Gods help him if his family's banner men ever saw this sight. They'd forever snigger behind his back, call him soft or womanly. As Robb settled down onto the bed, Mini curled contently against him and his wife's gentle breathing filling the air, he forgot his father's men and allowed sleep to come.

* * *

During the day, when Robb's duties pulled him away, Elane, her dear handmaiden, was a great help to Sylvia, especially when Sylvia herself was away. Elane was no nurse—she found children trying and loud and demanding and once long ago, she had vowed never to have any. But her job was whatever her lady made it, so when Lady Sylvia requested that she take care of the babe whilst she got some business done, the handmaid did so without complaint. The girl would take care of Mini when Lady Catelyn requested her assistance for household matters. As the future Lady of Winterfell, it would one day be her duty to run the household, tend to the stores, order about the servants and to entertain guests when they had them. So, in place of the lessons she took with Maester Luwin as a girl, she now learned from Lady Catelyn how to manage the affairs of the castle.

Such business took Sylvia away a few days every week, for hours at a time, and although she would have liked to be with her baby, she couldn't deny that part of herliked having a bit of a break.

A gentle cry came from the cradle beside the bed, the little infant beginning to wake—stretching and looking for her mother's arms (or rather her teat). Elane set down the dress she was mending and stood with a heavy sigh of annoyance.

Lady Sylvia had been called away by Lady Catelyn for some household matter, and had once again employed Elane to care for her child. Many times (with great disdain), Elane wished her lady would leave the babe with a nurse, so that she wouldn't suffer her handmaid to deal with a hungry, cranky baby. But her lady didn't like the idea of anyone but her feeding Minisa, so Elane did her best to console the hungry child until her mother returned to her. There was a bit of hope on the matter, however. Lord Robb had begun insisting that Sylvia allow the nurse to feed Minisa when she could not, so she may have more time in her duties and give her handmaid some peace. She was hopeful her lady would agree, for she already _disliked_ that Minisa went hungry the times she was gone.

Elane crossed the room quietly and knelt down next to her lady's child. Even though the maid disliked children, and hated having to take care of her, she couldn't deny the way her heart warmed when she saw her. She was a dear little thing sometimes. The babe looked like her mother: black hair, same nose, same hairline, and same eye shape. The similarities had only become more prominent in the last six months of the baby's life, but, vaguely, she could see some of Lord Robb in her too: in the shape of her lips, and the colour of her eyes, the curve of her brows, the curl of her hair and even the fullness of her cheeks.

She'd relayed as much to the queen, thinking that the woman would like to know what her grandchild looked like.

Little Minisa ( _Mini_ , as her mother and father called her), blinked up at the handmaiden and began whimpering a little when she saw it was not her mother who came for her. Elane picked her up anyway, the layer of cotton blankets and rabbit fur made the baby feel large in her arms, but it was cold, and the baby needed protection. A sudden gust of wind shook the shudders, and Elane shivered under her shawl. Days like these she longed for Casterly Rock and the warm climate of the south.

Not long later, just as Mini began to fuss and whine in her arms, the door creaked open and Lady Sylvia walked through the door, immediately closing it again to shut out the natural cold of the castle. At once, the girl's eyes landed on Elane by the fire, her arms filled with Minisa, and her eyes lightened at seeing her daughter. Annoyed, Elane wondered if her lady would be as happy to see her daughter if she was _around_ when the whelp was fussy.

Sylvia grinned down at her daughter as she took her from her handmaid's arms.

"Thank you," the lady said with a courteous nod. Elane nodded back dutifully, and sat back in her place by the fire. The baby smiled and squealed happily, her arms reaching up at her mother's face, and her small fingers clenching around a long onyx strand that had fallen loose from her braids. The young mother took a small hand in hers and moved towards her bed.

"Our stores of meat, vegetables and ale have been assessed and reordered, so I am free until midday." Sylvia said happily. The handmaid could almost sigh in relief, but a maidservant does not do such things before her lady.

"I believe she's hungry, my lady." Was all Elane commented as she returned to her mending. Sylvia knew this all too well, but nodded in thanks anyway.

She sat on the edge of the bed and shifted her daughter in her arms more comfortably. As she unlaced the front of her dress, and pulled it down to expose her breast, Sylvia couldn't help but think of Robb's suggestion of employing a nurse to take care of Mini when she was needed elsewhere. Northern ladies only employed nurses when they _needed_ to, but as Sylvia knew, her duties to Winterfell as well as her daughter were suffering, and a nurse _had_ to be considered.

In many ways, it was a rather attractive idea: it would give her more time to learn under Lady Catelyn, it would give Elane some rest, and she wouldn't be troubled with Mini _biting_ her any longer. The princess frowned as her daughter suckled greedily from her nipple, blinking her little eyes slowly in content. Her heart squeezed at the babe's hunger. She _knew_ it would be better to employ a nurse, because then Mini wouldn't go hungry the times she was away. But yet she denied it, for her own reasons. Mini was hers, she was her mother no one else, and no one else should be feeding her. It seemed silly to be jealous of a wet-nurse, and even cruel to allow her babe to go hungry when she could help it...

Sylvia rubbed her thumb over the baby's round cheek, watching Mini as she watched her.

...But she didn't relish in the idea of another woman sharing this with her baby.

"Elane, would you feed the fire, please?" Sylvia asked. Nodding, the elder girl began to feed another log into the fire, warming the cold room little by little. "When did she wake?" the princess turned to look at her friend, hardly noticing that Mini was now yanking at the lock of hair she clenched in her small fist.

"Perhaps, a half an hour before you came back, my lady." Replied the handmaid. Sylvia hummed and looked back down at the suckling babe.

When the babe had gotten her fill and her mother had re-laced her dress, Sylvia laid her down on the bed, unwrapping her from her swaddling blankets and letting her wriggle about on the bed freely. _She's grown so much_ , Sylvia thought as she slid down to lie on her side. Her skirts hiked up to expose her stocking clad calves, but she hardly cared; there was no one around to make a scandal of the princess' exposed legs. Mini was just over six months old: her hair had grown a bit thicker and curls had appeared at the onyx coloured ends, her two bottom teeth had _finally_ cut through and she'd just learned how to roll over, much to her and Robb's amazement.

As Mini lay on her belly, and pushed herself up and down with her chubby arms, Sylvia watched her intently as she always did. The young mother could spend hours just looking at her, smiling at every little expression on her tiny face, at every babble, committing her tiny hands and feet to memory. She wondered if this was how her mother felt when she was born. She wondered if it became more of a marvel after the first baby, or if he mother had mooned over her as she had over Joffrey and Myrcella.

Minisa rolled over again, pulling her out of her thoughts and back to the present. The baby cooed and prattled on the bed, grabbing her toes and babbling away at her mother in nonsensical sounds.

Another cold gust swept through the room from the outside, and the two southern girls' soft skin turned to gooseflesh in the cold northern air. But not Mini's. She was a northerner, at home in the cold and ice and snow. _She's like Robb—she looks like me, but she's his daughter,_ Sylvia thought. The young mother smiled down at the babe, reaching down to hold a tiny foot in her hand.

"Would you like to go see father, my sweet girl?" she cooed down at the infant. Mini smiled toothlessly up at her mother, reaching her hands up eagerly at her. "Yes? Well, I should like to go see him too." Changing her clouts, and then rewrapping her in the blankets, Sylvia ventured out of her chambers, Minisa in her arms, off to the training yard to see Robb.

* * *

 _Thwak!_ The tip of the arrow embedded itself into the side of a barrel, well away from the target. Bran groaned and kicked at the pebbles at his feet in frustration.

Up above in the perch, Lord Stark and his lady wife watched their children fondly, quietly recalling when it had been Robb, Jon and Theon being instructed by Lord Eddard. Those days were far off, yet the memories were still fresh.

The soft clack of a woman's shoes drew Lord Eddard's attention away from his sons and to his left, where he saw his son's wife coming towards them, the white mink fur collaring her cloak making her easily identifiable. No one else had mink fur lining their cloak. The Lord of Winterfell grinned at her as his eyes fell on the bundle in her arms. His grandchild—his only grandchild—Minisa.

"Hello Sylvia," Lord Stark greeted, a smile crossing his time, and worry lined face. Ever since Minisa was born, Lord Eddard had been warmer to her. He'd never shunned her, but neither had he been particularly chatty with her before Mini's birth. Starks were very honourable men, she knew, and she supposed her husband's lord father didn't want to become fond of her if she failed her duty as Robb's wife. _If_ she had failed to give Robb a child, the north would spurn her, princess or not. It may not be a vocal thing, but whispers and rumours could be as loud and damaging as any shout.

Lesser born girls had even been sent back to their fathers, ashamed and disgraced for not providing her husband with sons. But as the daughter of the king, it was unspeakable if she returned to the Capitol with a besmirched name. So if she had never gotten pregnant, she would be made to suffer under the northerners' cold, judging eyes, and endure their cruel whispers for years and years, as her and Robb's marriage turned cold and dead and his visits to her chamber grew fewer and fewer.

 _Gods be good_ she had done her duty to his son. He didn't want his son to be unhappy, and Sylvia made him _very_ happy. Sylvia gave him a child, a sweet little girl they named after Catelyn's mother, and Robb loved her with all his heart. It was not the male heir every man dreamt of, but all children were blessings, and Lord Stark didn't mind so terribly having a healthy granddaughter, instead of a grandson. Little Minisa was happy, she was healthy, and she was Robb's...that was all anyone could ask for.

"My lord, my lady," she replied with a brief curtsy. Down in the yard, Robb's eyes turned upwards, away from his little brother's practice, and to where he'd heard his Sylvia's voice. He smiled softly at her and at the familiar bundle in her arms. He turned back to his brothers just as Bran loosed another arrow.

"Lady Sylvia," she heard from Theon Greyjoy, who was standing just behind the Lord and Lady of Winterfell, looking down at the yard where servants bustled around like bees in a hive.

"Hello, my dear." Lady Catelyn greeted before turning back to watch her sons.

"How is the girl today?" Lord Eddard asked, nodding down at his granddaughter.

"She is well, my lord. Very happy. Would my lord like to hold her?" Sylvia asked graciously.

The Lord of Winterfell turned and moved his arms out to accept the child. "Yes, give her over." Carefully, Sylvia handed her daughter over to Lord Stark, smiling as he took her in his arms. It warmed her heart to see this sight. She admired Lord Eddard—he was a good man, strong and fair and stern, but he did have a heart and loved his family with every bit of it.

The little lady Stark turned back to the practice yard, grimacing a little when she saw Bran's arrow fly over the target and into the trees of the godswood. Bran hung his head low in shame as his brothers laughed. Even little Rickon, down on the fence, was giggling even though the closest he'd ever gotten to holding a weapon was the wooden sword he held.

"And which one of you was a marksman at ten?" Lord Eddard called out to them, Mini emitting a startled whine the loud words. The brothers glanced up to their father (and Robb and Bran's mother) jovial smiles still on their lips. "Keep practicing Bran." The gentle encouragement calmed the boy a little, but he still gave a short nod at his father. "Go on."

Robb didn't turn back when his brothers did, but instead locked eyes with his wife, grinning at her, and only turning back when she gave him a sweet smile of her own. Catelyn raised a delicate brow. They were still children in many ways, she thought. She was sad it would not always last. They loved each other yes, she'd known that since Robb was fifteen and Sylvia was fourteen. But someday, something would happen, and make it not so easy for them to love each other. She only prayed their love was strong enough to see them through it.

Jon leaned in close and murmured some words to Bran that Sylvia couldn't hear clearly, but she knew they must be heartening. She watched as the boy drew back the arrow. "Relax your bow arm." Robb said, eyeing his shaking arm. Bran steadied himself, his arm shaking only slightly, and then—

 _Thwak!_ The arrow struck the center of the target. But Bran's arrow remained aimed at the target.

Arya Stark curtsied like a proper little lady when her brothers turned to look upon her in awe, the bow still in her hand as if mocking Bran's failure. Sylvia laughed when Bran threw his own bow aside and darted towards her, leaping over the rails of the pen and chasing her across the yard.

" _Run Arya!"_ she called out to her little good-sister.

" _Quick Bran!"_ called Jon.

" _Faster!"_ called Robb.

"Lord Stark!" another voice called out. Behind them Ser Rodrik Cassel, the Master-at-Arms, marched close, his face grave as he clutched the pommel of his sword. "M'lady, Lady Sylvia." The portly man greeted them. "A guardsman just rode in from the hills. They've captured a deserter from the Night's Watch." At once, Lord Eddard's face lost all of its amusement, and became as cold and hard as steel.

Sylvia knew the penalty for desertion, she'd learned that the second year she lived in the north, when another man from the Nights Watch deserted the Wall. It was brutal, if you asked her: killing a man for simply leaving his post. Was there no room for mercy, or pardon? When Robb came back that day, and she said as much, he told her the man had been a traitor; he swore an oath and went against it. He asked if in the south, men cared more about gold and gain, than honor and law. Sylvia had stared back at him with narrowed eyes, truly offended and angry. This was one of the few times she never said a word back. It hadn't been her Robb she was speaking to, but rather Lord Robb, the man he would grow to be and this Lord Robb could not be argued with. They never spoke of the matter again. Although he knew her opinion well enough, there was no use in arguing the law, because the law could not be changed.

What was even worse about the punishment was that the Starks did not have an executioner. The man who passed the sentence, swung the sword, for that was the old way of the north. One day, Robb would be Lord Stark, and he would have to bear the weight of passing judgement himself.

Lord Stark turned back to his good-daughter and handed the child back to her, prompting a disgruntled grunt from Mini. "Get the lads to saddle their horses." He commanded his ward when he turned back. With a nod, Theon Greyjoy marched down the walkway.

"Do you _have_ to?" Lady Catelyn asked, her eyes wide and soft as the southern blue skies. Like Sylvia, she found the price of desertion too much, too costly, but it wasn't her place to question or attempt to change the northerners long standing customs.

"He swore an oath, Cat. Law is law." Her husband turned back to Ser Rodrik. "Tell Bran he's coming too." At once Lady Catelyn snapped her eyes back up at her husband, defiance and something like anger burning in her eyes. Catelyn accepted the punishment begrudgingly, but when he brought young Bran into it, she was prepared to argue, as all mothers are when it comes to their children's innocent eyes. Sylvia readjusted Mini in her arms, quiet and respectful like proper lady should be when there was toil in front of her, but also brave and unflinching in the face of it.  _Courage_ , septa Bryda told her. _A princess must have unyielding courage_.

"Ned." The Lady of Winterfell spoke in the stern voice of a mother. "Ten is _too_ young to see such things."

"He's not going to be a boy forever." He said stiffly, his eyes masked with the coldness of duty and honour. "And winter _is_ coming." Was all Lord Stark replied before he turned away from the women, off to fetch _Ice_ and saddle his horse for the ride. Lady Catelyn sighed and turned her head away so Sylvia could not see what was written on her face. The girl didn't mind and chose to turn back and observe her husband and his brothers a little more, before Theon or Rodrik came to tell them the news.

Robb and Rickon were gathering all the arrows which had missed the target as Jon placed them back in the quiver. She felt her lady of Winterfell turn beside her to look upon her sons and her husband's bastard as well. When Jon looked up, his eyes briefly gazed upon his good-sister before landing on the older woman beside her. Even without looking to see, Sylvia knew Lady Stark's eyes were cold and disapproving looking down at the bastard boy. She'd seen it the first day she arrived here in Winterfell and had seen it a thousand times since.

 _Poor boy_ , Salvia thought. But Jon was a bastard _born_ from dishonour, his father was even so ashamed of his mother that he never spoke of her, not even her name. She didn't think he deserved the treatment he got, he was so kind and smart, and he was Robb's _brother,_ his best friend. It was sad his father's dishonour brought him such struggle. Her heart squeezed for the bastard boy when he looked away, brief flashes of hurt in his eyes.

Mini began to whine in her arms, growing restless at being all bundled up as she was. The princess turned her eyes away from her good-brother and to her child.

"Be thankful the gods blessed you with a daughter, Sylvia." Lady Catelyn finally murmured as Sylvia began swaying her body from side to side in an attempt to soothe the babe. Catelyn's eyes turned back to her good-daughter and granddaughter, at the same moment Sylvia looked from her daughter's face and back at her. "Come to my solar after you've seen Robb off. We've work to attend." With that, Lady Catelyn turned away, her cloak trailing behind her.

After a moment, Sylvia turned back to look down at her family. Rickon gave the last small cluster of arrows to Robb, an eager smile lighting up his face. He practically beamed when Robb patted his shoulder and thanked him. The little wolf was so darling when he wasn't cranky.

Her ocean coloured eyes moved up to her husband, and watched as he set the arrows back into their quiver. How this day had turned. Not moments ago there had only been juvenile ease in the air, and now this ugly business had manifested. Thousands of strangers met their end _everyday_ without her realizing, but knowing Lord Stark himself was doing such a deed made it real. It was a hard thing to know that her husband would one day be forced to pass judgement and carry out the king's justice. It was impossible to ignore, so the best that could be done, was to accept it.

"Robb!" called Theon as he walked through the yard and towards Robb and his natural brother.

* * *

Sylvia must have read the ravens scroll a dozen times before she started to believe the words.

_The loyal Hand...dead...fever...King and his royal and noble court...to Winterfell..._

After seeing Robb off by the gates, she'd returned Mini to their chambers with Elane, leaving behind instructions to let the infant free of her bundles and to let her roam about the bed or to lay her in cradle and rock her. As instructed, she returned to Lady Catelyn's private solar immediately after. They'd been reviewing newest letters to arrive, the raven's scrolls to come in and were in the process of writing out replies, when Maester Luwin came in from the rookery, a scroll in his hand with those grim words.

Could it be true? Was it a lie? It must be correct; there was her father's signature at the bottom of the slip of paper. What did this mean now? Who would be her father's new Hand? In her heart, she already knew the answer. Her father loved Lord Eddard. When he traveled north for her wedding, he gave the Lord of Winterfell more attention and affection than his eldest daughter. Why else would her royal father travel so far, if not to give his best friend the title as Hand? Knowing Lord Stark's rigid sense of honour, he'd most like say yes when her father asked.

Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North and...Hand of the king? It would be splendidly profitable for the Starks—new income, higher status, more power and a few pages in the history books. But the title would take some of the family away to the Capitol. Not even two years ago, she and Robb had quarrelled about visiting the south. She doubted the time had softened him towards the idea, and now they had a child to consider. If her mother or her father requested she return south with them, what in the seven hells would they say? She almost cursed Jon Arryn aloud, before she stopped herself hastily. The man was dead, it does not do well to speak ill of a dead man.

Jon Arryn—father's Hand, Catelyn's brother by law... _dead?_ It seemed impossible somehow. Jon Arryn had always _been_ —he had been a constant fixture in the Red Keep, a faceless presence who helped to rule the kingdoms beside her royal father. She thought of Jon Arryn, but all that came to her mind was how he'd hurt her feelings once or twice as a child. Sylvia hardly remembered what it had been over, but she remembered the hurt and embarrassment and anger she felt at the old man, sharp and hot as a freshly forged blade. She was ashamed of that now as she realized that old man had now gone to meet the gods.

Sylvia looked down at the scroll once more, a smile coming to her face without realising. The royal court. It meant her mother, her brothers, her sister and even her uncles. Myrcella was the first in her mind—still four years old, with golden curls and emerald eyes, and a love of dolls and dresses. She remembered almost every tea party they'd ever had, every time she braided her hair, and the way her sister never made fun of her for talking to S...she stopped herself there.

She imagined the picture of Tommen she'd created in her head over the years: short and chubby, with mother's hair and eyes, sweet and gentle and with the same love of animals she'd had as a little girl. She prayed that Joffrey never tainted his good heart or Myrcella's for that matter. She prayed he left them be.

Then Joffrey came to her thoughts, seeping into her memory like a black ink. If he had ever been kind to her at some point in their life, Sylvia could not recall it. He was so awful to her and she'd hated him for it. What had she done to make him hate her so? What was the great and terrible thing she'd done to earn her little brother's hatred, and her mother's disapproval? Perhaps he only _liked_ to be terrible, she thought to herself.

As she remembered, Joffrey was everything Myrcella and Tommen were not. Yet there was a part of her that still maintained a bond of kinship with him, however weak the tether was. He was her brother, her blood, and until Myrcella was born he'd really been the only companion she had. Did that mean nothing? She hoped the years had changed her little brother from the terror she remembered and into less of a monster. Despite this, she was still not eager to see him again after six years. He'd hurt her too much as a child for her to feel anything else but dread at his imminent arrival.

"Why are you smilin' Sylvie?" Rickon piped up from the floor, his small hands clutching his little toy knight possessively. "Mother said someone died?" His mother had gone from the solar after she handed Sylvia the scroll. _Off to find a record of the accounts_ , she said, _we must review everything once more_. While Mini would interfere with her and Lady Catelyn's work, Rickon often found himself here with his mother and Sylvia when he was not in lessons with Bran. He was quiet enough, happy to play with his toys on the floor and listen to his mother and good-sister's voices as they dealt with the affairs of the castle.

"I'm smiling because my family is coming to visit, little wolf." She replied, setting down the slip of paper.

"But _we're_ your family." The six year old said matter-of-factly as he began to play with his toys again.

"Yes, I know. But my mother and father, and brothers and sister are coming so that makes me happy."

"Oh. Is it because that man died?" Sylvia paused, crossing and re-crossing her legs under her gown. Gods forgive her, but the death of the old man seemed less important when in the same scroll, there was news of the king coming to visit.

"Yes. His name was Jon Arryn." She said. "He was very dear to your father and mother. He was your aunt's husband, Lady Lysa." She spoke as if she was teaching the boy his lessons, calm, and factual.

"When will they come?" the fire behind him snapped as he asked, the light illuminating his auburn hair into orange flames as he played with his little wooden knights and horses.

"Hm, probably in two months time. It takes a while to prepare for such a long ride, and _we_ need to prepare for a royal visit."

"Will it be boring like last time?" he demanded, a bit of excitement rising in his voice.

" _Boring_? Last time they were here, it was my and Robb's wedding. _I_ don't think it was boring." She countered with a sly smile. Of course he thought it was boring, he was in bed before any of the real entertainment began.

"Yes it was." Rickon deadpanned. Sylvia smiled and opened her mouth to reply, but suddenly the door burst open. Robb stood there, looking too large for the door frame and Rickon jumped. Sylvia jumped to her feet, the instinct to defend the small child shooting up in her chest, and then falling in relief when she saw it was just her husband, the familiar grin of Theon Greyjoy just behind him.

"Robb what are you—?" a small squeal from a pup cut her off. In the sudden flurry of his arrival, she'd overlooked the two balls of fur in his arms, nuzzling at his chest in search for milk where there was none. The one in his right hand was grey with yellow eyes, while the other was black with shining green eyes.

"Puppies!" Rickon cried in delight, jumping up from his place on the floor and rushing at Robb.

"Hurry it up then!" Theon Greyjoy spoke up behind Robb. Peering around her husband, she saw the smiley squid boy holding two more pups. Robb moved into the solar, Theon just behind him.

"Where did you get _puppies?"_ She asked in amazement. It was a great shock that he left her so solemn and serious and came back with an enthusiastic smile, and _four_ pups. Wherever did he get them? Why did he take them up into the castle instead of leaving them in the kennels? Did he mean for them to remain as pets? A bubble of excitement rose in her chest. Oh it had been so long since she'd had a pet. Ever since the awfulness with Joffrey and the kitchen cat she'd refused another pet, afraid it would meet the same horrible end. Sylvia had always loved animals, and it had been a long time since she'd had a furry companion.

"We found a surprise on the road." He replied with a boyish grin. "Jon and Bran have one as well. There were six pups—one for each other Stark children."

 _But Jon is not a Stark_ , she thought.

" _Give me one!"_ Rickon demanded excitedly, holding his arms up at his brother. Robb relented and handed Rickon the black pup and at once Rickon clutched the squirming black ball to his chest, looking so happy, Sylvia thought he might cry. Robb held the grey one close to his own chest, unbothered as it continued to nuzzle and whine at him. Poor little thing was probably hungry.

"Where's their mother?" she asked holding her arms out for the puppy in Robb's arms. Robb seemed reluctant to part from the tiny thing, but before the princess could ask what the matter was, he pressed the puppy into her hands. It squirmed in the air, an annoyed yip striking through the air before Sylvia gripped it's small body. The grey fur was the softest thing she'd ever felt as the puppy settled against her, and he was quite warm. She cradled it tenderly, stroking her fingers over the soft fur, wondering why she'd never bothered with another pet.

"Dead. A stag gorged it's antler in her throat. We found them next to the bitch trying to nurse." Robb's voice had darkened as he relayed the grim tale. It was an omen, a bad one, he knew it, and he almost wished he was fool enough to miss it. What was coming, he did not know, but it was likely not good.

"A stag ran a dog through? Why? That doesn't make sense." His little wife asked as she continued to pet and stroke the pup's fur, as though he was a simple hound to be coddled. But looking at the grey pup she held, the one Robb had claimed as his own, something deep and dark and hidden inside him whispered that these particular pups were anything but ordinary. He'd felt _something_ looking into that pup's yellow eyes, something familiar that said he was meant to have him.

Just as Robb was about to correct her, Theon beat him to it. "These are no pups, my lady. These are direwolves."


	11. No One Likes Beets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoy :D

**Chapter 8: No One Likes Beets**

She was in the Sept of Baelor, she knew it. There was no other structure with grand marble walls in the Seven Kingdoms. The blackness was creeping up on her, only the torch in her hand kept the darkness away, kept away whatever remained hidden in those shadows. Something was making her run, she didn't know what, didn't know why, but she couldn't refuse the impulse. It was like being underwater—one doesn't simply remain still and allow themselves to drown. She saw the crypts lining the walls, the iron bars on the doorways to their tombs shining briefly in the fire light, before disappearing in the shadows as she ran.

Then, like a beacon, there was one crypt at the end of this hall that stood out, the sunlight from the surface shining through the grate above it and down onto its decorated pall. Her feet ran faster, but not fast enough. The light shining over it seemed to dim with every step she took. Urgently, she abandoned the precious torch and reached out her hands to it, but it never seemed to get closer. The darkness closed in around her, reaching out like boney hands to swallow her whole.

A name was on her lips, but there was no breath to scream it out. Only a faded whisper in the darkness: _sister_.

Then her feet stumbled, and she was falling into something warm and soft and good. A startled gasp tore from her dry throat.

"Hey," Robb's voice breathed into her ear, hot and moist. Her frightened blue eyes opened and peered up at her husband as he loomed over her. It was dark, but not the horrible darkness that had chased her in her dream. She blinked up at Robb as he shifted so he was propped up on his elbow above her. She'd never felt as relieved to be awoken as she was now. "You were kicking my feet. Where were you?" he asked tenderly as he raised a hand to stroke her black hair.

"Nowhere." She breathed back. It was just a silly dream, a silly dream about nothing and nowhere. No need to fuss over it. Trying to banish the dream from memory, Sylvia reached up and let her hands trail in her husband's beautiful curls, like she had a thousand times before. She looked briefly into the beautiful blue pools their daughter inherited, her vulnerability written clear as water in her eyes. She pulled him down to kiss her, his warm lips melting the ice on hers. It began sweet and comforting, but she needed _more_ , to make her forget the dream and the dark and the cold.

She bit his lip and relished in his groan of desire, their breathing starting to grow heavy as his tongue invaded her mouth. Her fingers clenched at his back, fisting around the fabric of his night shirt and pulling up. Robb gave a little groan he situated himself atop her, and began hurriedly pulling at her night dress, kissing the exposed skin of her shoulders as he pulled the fabric away. She gasped when he entered her, the last of the dream melting away under Robb's warm hands.

In the wake of her fear, and the midst of their passion filled entanglement, Sylvia forgot all about the impending arrival of her family, and the royal court this day.

* * *

Mini's laughter filled the room as the little pup—Grey Wind, Robb had named him—danced around her in a playful canter. The pup had grown in the past two moons, from a helpless little ball of fur mewling for mother's milk, and into a very playful dire wolf. But baby or not, his teeth were still very sharp, and his small paws concealed small blunt nails that would one day be used for the hunt.

For now though, the little dire wolf played happily with the little pup with strange pink hide and tiny square fangs. She wasn't as fun or lively as his brothers and sisters, but he enjoyed her, no matter how ugly a wolf she was.

Her daughter's peals of laughter drew her eyes up from her stitching and to the two playmates. The onyx haired girl bit her lip warily as Grey Wind licked at Mini's fingers, causing the baby to scream with glee and dive her small pudgy hands to the dire wolf's soft fur. Grey Wind didn't seem to mind terribly.

As she watched, ready to pounce if Grey Wind saw fit to practice hunting on her babe, her fingers slipped and the tip of the needle stabbed into her finger, drawing a dark bead of blood into the cold northern air. She hissed and brought the bloodied digit to her mouth.

Sylvia had never wanted the dire wolf to be Mini's playmate. Dire wolves were wild beasts, vicious and three times stronger than their little cousins that prowled the Wolf's Wood. Every day that passed, Grey Wind grew into the terrifying beast the Starks used as their sigil, and what parents told to naughty children at bedtime. When she first came north, Old Nan had told her and the younger children about the dire wolves that once prowled their lands and how they could rip men in two and then feed them to their cubs. She'd scoffed at the old woman's stories, believing dire wolves to be as dead as the dragons; but now there were _six_ about the castle, and one her daughter clung to as a playmate. Minisa's companion would grow as big as a pony and she didn't want such a creature around her little one— _ever_. Even if he was her husband's _pet_.

"He'll _bite_ her." Sylvia had protested when Robb first brought Grey Wind back to their chambers to introduce him to Mini.

"I won't let him." He'd replied as he set the wolf down on the bed next to the defenceless infant girl. Sylvia nearly snatched her daughter back up as the pup crawled low on his belly towards Mini, sniffing curiously at her little form. Grey Wind was only as long as Mini, but he had fangs and the irregular mind of a wild beast. She worried what would happen if Mini hurt him, and muddied his curiosity into anger.

She watched as Mini finally took notice of the new creature on the bed. For a long moment nothing happened, Mini only looked at the furry thing with a baby's impassive gaze. A small soft paw lifted and pressed down on the baby's chubby belly, the black tip of his nose beginning to prod around the girl's chest and face. Not to be left out of this exploration, Mini raised her waving hands and brought them down on the pup's soft fur. Her poor mother held her breath, her heart beating wildly in her bosom, but the dire wolf made no move to twist and bite or claw at the defenceless child. With curious interest, Mini babbled at her new found friend.

"Don't you see? They already love each other." Robb said.

Sylvia looked at him as though he were mad. "But Mini's a baby; she doesn't _know_ gentleness. If she bothers him one time too many—"

"You can't protect her forever, Sylvia. It would be ill of you to try."

"She's a _baby_ ; I can protect her all I like, _especially_ from a wolf." She scoffed and turned her head away from her husband, looking back to their young infant with a mother's deep worrying eyes. How could Robb have so much trust in that creature? Robb sighed, and turned to look with her, their child sparing a sweet, toothless smile at the pup who now tickled her cheek with his snout. They were curious of each other, both babies really, discovering a potential friend.

"These wolves are not natural creatures, Syl, I can feel it." He murmured with a far off look in his eye. Sylvia turned to watch her husband's profile, her brows narrowed in a way which betrayed how she was bothered by her love's bizarre words. He'd never spoken like that before—Robb talked of facts and truths; he was never one for relying on something as fickle as wish or feeling. "Direwolves are wilder, but they are far _smarter_ than ordinary wolves. Grey Wind will _always_ protect Mini. I know it."

"It's an _animal_ , Robb. A _wild_ animal. You can't tame a wild thing." She returned her eyes back to her little one, ignoring the coming wave of elation at seeing both child and wolf get along so tenderly. "I don't want him where Mini sleeps."

"I'll keep him in the kennels, if that'll please you. But only until he gets too big; then he'll prowl the godswood."

"Surely it would be far more at home in the Wolf's Wood—"

"Why don't you trust me?" The anger which had seeped into his heart, now colored his voice a dim shade.

Sylvia was quiet. She _did_ trust him, more than anyone in the world. She trusted him with her life, with their daughter's life, but how could she have faith in him when he thought a bloody direwolf would be a good pet? When he would allow the blasted creature to, not only be near their baby, but to grow with her? "That's unfair." She grumbled to him sternly. "I trust _you_ , not a wild beast _._  You cannot control a direwolf, any more than you can tell a bird to sing or the snow to stop falling."

"Grey Wind doesn't obey commands," Robb said. "He understands them." Whatever that meant, Sylvia never knew.

"I don't _care_. If he hurts her—"

"He won't." Robb promised. _"He won't."_ A husband does not need his wife's permission to carry out his plans, although life was made easier if he had it. Life was not particularly easy in the last two moons, Sylvia often voicing her misgivings of the animal her husband had brought home. Always, Robb would reply there was nothing to fear from Grey Wind when it came to Mini, but it was a long time before his sweet southern wife began to trust the direwolf.

Grey Wind had never harmed the baby to be true—it seemed he knew Mini could not partake in his rough play—and Sylvia's fears had calmed in the time since Robb and the others had found the pups on the side of the road.

Sylvia came to accept him, and slowly became comfortable in the small, intimidating animal's presence, coming to love him for the joy he brought her daughter. Her husband's dire wolf (she could never think of it as _their_ dire wolf, for indeed, he and the beast held a bond she did not understand) was a fierce thing, even so small. He was larger than any of the others in his litter, calmer, far less playful. As the days went by, Grey Wind spent less time with his littermates and more time with his master, learning commands and strengthening their strange attachment to the point where Sylvia believed that, as a warrior's sword is an extension of his arm, so was Grey Wind an extension of Robb.

 _One soul, split in two_. Seeing the two so in sync with each other stirred something inside her, something familiar that was soon forgotten with the labour the day brought. Still, though, sometimes when she looked at Grey Wind, she could almost swear something human was staring back.

The gentle click of the door alerted the young lady to her husband's return from the Tom the butcher—who for today, was acting as a barber. She looked up, and hardly held back a bright smile at seeing his shaved face and combed hair. He hadn't combed his hair so formally since they wed. "You look very handsome." She commented with a wide grin.

"I feel like a lad." He grumbled, absently scratching at his smooth cheek. He looked like one too, with the smooth cheeks of other men his age, and hair shortened and combed as though from his mother.

She repressed a giggle, and barely managed a contemplative frown as she observed his face. Then she gave a dramatic gasp, "You're right! It seems I've been tricked. Instead of a man, my father sent me to a boy." His lips raised into the smirk she could either love, or want to smack of his gorgeous face. Right now she wanted to kiss him.

Outside the door, Ser Fredrick's lips twitched at hearing his charge's playful exclamation. The little Lady Stark was so very happy these days, since her family was coming once more, and that this time she would finally see her sister again, and meet little Tommen. The only time she'd ever seen him, was when her mother was swelling with him, silken gowns with fine embroidery stretching over the bump that covered him. The king and queen would finally meet their grandchild and that was probably the most exciting idea for Sylvia. Even though her father had been a proper arse during the wedding celebration, the young woman was confident this time would be different; _this_ time her father would show the kindness other fathers did. The thought of her father holding her little one warmed her heart, although Ser Fredrick doubted the drunken lecher would ever hold much interest in the infant for long.

"Come here and I'll show you how much of a man I am." Robb smiled, and his wife smirked at his delightful promise. Casting one last look at Mini, who was chewing on her ragdoll's arm as Grey Wind chewed on the leg, she stood, and moved to him, her arms stretching out to receive him.

His warm lips met her cold ones, spreading a pleasant heat across her face for a good long moment before he pulled away. She smiled at his shaved chin and raised her fingers to run across the pale skin. "A lad wouldn't do the things you did to me last night," she admitted lowly with a coy smirk. She blushed as Robb barked out a laugh at her vulgar words. Oh how she would love it if septa Maesa were here to witness her former charge speaking so boldly to her husband. Alas, the sour old creature had relocated to a sept down in Torrhen's Square.

Just as he was about to kiss her again, a loud knock resonated through the room. "Little Lady, Lord Robb," Ser Fredrik called from beyond the door. "The king rides close."

Robb groaned and tightened his hands around her waist. Duty called once again. Damn it. Sylvia smiled and kissed his smooth cheek before pulling away to retrieve her little one from the floor.

"We'll be right out!" Robb called back.

"Come, my darling." She cooed as she took Mini up in her arms. "Let's go meet mummy's family, yes?" Mini smiled up at her mother, raising her little hands to tug on the long black tendrils she had inherited. It was clear she didn't understand, but her mother was happy, and so she was happy. The princess smiled down at her daughter, leaning down to kiss her forehead as Robb fetched the child's swaddling clothes and her cloak. Grey Wind stared up at her as she wrapped her daughter in the furs she hated so much, his yellow eyes vigilant and curious.

* * *

The royal family appeared again with as much pomp as they had nearly two years before—the banners, the crowded courtyard, everyone in the best; although this time there were more servants of the Red Keep than noblemen who served the crown in attendance. Much as before, Sylvia's heart thundered loudly in her breast, and a tingly feeling of excitement crackled like embers in her belly. In her elation, she could not recall _why_ her family was visiting, and the possibility of Lord Eddard becoming Hand seemed a very small facet on this wonderful day when her child would meet more of her family. The gentle thrum of horse hooves grew louder, carrying the royal family to the gates.

Two years ago, her heart had been heavy with the impending arrival of her awful little brother. She feared his barbed tongue—the hurtful words, the rumours, the unhappy tales from their childhood—all of it. He would embarrass her, make Robb think twice about wanting her, and destroy the friendship she built with Sansa and Arya, and give Theon and the other boy's swords to poke her with. And so she'd prayed every night Joffrey had finally learned to be kind or that he'd gotten a splinter and demanded to return to the Red Keep. Sylvia had silently rejoiced when mother said he'd remained in the Capitol, but her heart sunk when she realised her sister and littlest brother had remained there with him. She'd been afraid of Joffrey, she didn't know him anymore, but her memory of him convinced her he would ruin her marriage before it even began.

But not now. Joffrey could not destroy this—she and the Starks had years between them; she and Robb had a child...they knew each other, inside and out and they loved each other anyway. She and the Starks respected each other. Loved each other. She even cared for Theon Greyjoy, annoying, son-of-a-traitor squid boy he was. Nothing as petty as Joffrey could tear them apart. She was not afraid of him anymore; she was no longer left alone with only her mother's rare interference as protection.

At her side, as he had two years before, Robb stood tall and proud and strong. Her husband would be Lord of the North one day, and what a fine lord he would be, as she stood by his side, as regal and elegant as her queenly mother. Their little one lay against her chest, and although it was preferred that babes at breast be in the care of a wet-nurse within the castle at this time, Sylvia wanted her family to meet her daughter as soon as possible. Over her shoulder, Mini blinked owlishly at her bastard uncle Jon, and fosterling uncle Theon who gave her soft smiles. They cared for the sweet babe as much as any of Lord Eddard's true born children, despite their besmirched names.

Her good-sister Sansa stood on her right, her excitement properly contained under her ladylike disposition, while Arya fidgeted uncomfortably under her lovely dress _. Thank the gods_ , Sylvia thought, _that she's behaving this time_. Not a hair out of place, not a mark on her dress or an annoying quip shooting from her mouth, Sylvia could kiss her little good-sister for being so proper today. Perhaps later, she would save her from needlepoint, she was sure Arya would appreciate that. Beside Arya, stood Bran who looked rather serious for someone his age and finally Rickon stood with his mother, and at the moment, he looked quite put out since his wolf, Shaggy Dog, was chained in the kennels with his littermates. "He doesn't like chains," the little boy would protest. But Shaggy was too volatile, sometimes snapping at people's heels and growling threateningly at anyone who tried to pat him, so Shaggy was confined to chains more than any of his littermates.

At last the gates opened, and the first of the King's Guard rode in, tall and glittering in their armour, and behind them was a boy in a crimson cloak riding between the men holding her family's banners, a proud grin on his face. Sylvia knew him almost immediately, his golden hair and haughty expression giving him away.

Joffrey, her foul little brother who she could have gone a hundred years without seeing again. Sylvia's brows twitched. He had always been mother's son, but honestly, for the sake of propriety, could he not have worn a golden cloak? She had worn father's colours when he came for her wedding, and she was a woman! People would make fun of him in secret, call him a little babe who clung to his mother, but Sylvia didn't feel at all sorry for that. Since he'd worn mother's colours, she supposed he hadn't much changed in the last six years, but for the fact that he was not a boy any longer. The grin on his face gave away no malice, but as she remembered, before she left, he'd gotten better at fooling everyone. She clutched Mini closer, suddenly very anxious to see her sister and littlest brother, to assess them for damage, both physical and otherwise. She worried for them and prayed neither of them had come under Joffrey's cruelty.

As Sylvia eyed this stranger carefully, trying to discern if he was still the terror he'd been as a child, Robb looked at him as well. Finally, he had a face to the horrendous tales of his wife's childhood, but he had to say, he pictured Joffrey...uglier, as though all his malice and terribleness were imprinted on his face. He didn't like it, and made a mental note to never let his younger siblings alone with the Crown Prince, who did not know the dreadful stories he knew.

After a very long moment of surveying the courtyard, Joffrey finally looked over at the Starks, his proud grin diming in the slightest way when he saw who must have been his elder sister, _Sylvia_. She looked different, grown and curved with a bundle against her chest, but still had that outrageous vapid look in her eye. Joffrey was once again glad she had been sold away so long ago. His _elder sister_ had never been worthy to be called a princess, and was an embarrassment to their family with her madness, but neither mother nor father could see it! He despised it, and looking at her now, those old feelings of resentment stirred once more.

Sylvia mustered a small smile for her younger brother because it was the proper thing to do at ones sibling after years of separation, but it even felt false on her lips.

Joffrey's eyes were not very difficult to read—while he was somewhat gifted at keeping himself composed when he was pleased, he had never mastered the art of hiding his eyes. But Sylvia did not know him anymore, and so as his eyes flashed something ugly, she did not know exactly what it was. She only knew it was not happiness. Her brother's gaze did not last long on her, for it was soon drawn to her sweet good-sister beside her. Sylvia stiffened as Joffrey's grin widened.

At her side, Robb followed Joffrey's charmed gaze, and his brows narrowed warily when he saw that Sansa do nothing to deter the prince's attention. She smiled _back_ at him, a gentle rose colour coming into her cheeks at being the only girl who'd earned a southern prince's smile.

Robb clenched his hand around the other. Sylvia had all but told him Joffrey was nothing more than a little shit with a royal title and privilege attached, and now he looked at his little sister like he wanted to debauch her himself. The young lordling clenched his jaw as he looked back at the prince. Give him an hour with Joffrey in the practice yard, and he would ensure Joffrey knew very well, that he could not get at his wife and younger sister without first going through him.

The princess shared a short pensive look with her husband, before the creaking of the approaching wheelhouse brought them from their thoughts. _There they are_ , she thought with renewed glee as the wheelhouse came into view. When the rickety wheels settled onto the soggy earth, the sound of the approaching horse hooves were even louder, and then there he was, the rebel King perched atop his black horse, his red face fierce and hard, but the roundness of his belly admitting the fact that the years of peace had made him lax.

As before, Sylvia's heart warmed at seeing her father once again, and excitement swelled within her as she held his first grandchild to her breast, all foul thoughts of Joffrey pushed away for the moment. How wonderful it would be, for her parents to meet Mini and fall as deeply in love with her as she and the Starks had at first seeing her. Even _Ser Fredrick_ loved Mini dearly, always happy to pack her and speak softly to her when he thought no one could hear. How could the king, _her own father_ , not love his grandchild as much as her sworn shield did?

At the sight of their king, the household immediately bent to their knees, heads bowed in respect. Atop his horse, the Crown Prince smiled at the sight of his elder sister on her knees, remembering how she never obeyed him when they were children, even though he was going to be the _king_ , and she would always be nothing. One day, when he was king, she would have to show double the amount of respect to him, to repent for all the humiliations and slights she'd dealt him growing up. And why not? He would be the king, and the world would be his to shape as he willed, just as father had conquered the realm, and moulded it to his liking.

In the relative quiet of the morning air, a gentle whine sounded from the bundled up infant in Sylvia's arms, annoyed at losing sight of her uncles and being pressed so stiffly against her mother, but she quietened once more when her mother began to rock her gently. Staring dutifully at the wet gravel before her, her long hair falling around her face in a curtain of onyx, Sylvia listened as her father dismounted his horse and to her little one's displeased grunting. How she would have liked to shift her and ease her distress before it grew worse, but the king was due his subjects' undivided attention. Sylvia prayed the pomp was over with soon so she could tend to her little one.

Finally, as Mini's annoyance grew into distress, marked by a loud indignant cry, the king motioned for the household to rise. Sylvia rose with the grace she'd mastered at seven and shifted her fussing baby so she could see her face. Mini's pouty mouth opened to mumble impatiently at her mother, her cheeks round and red, her blue eyes watery, and her small arms squirming under the cotton bounds, aching to be freed from the blasted confines. Sylvia grinned and held her closer; rocking her a little more as her father greeted Lord and Lady Stark as heartily as he had two years before. She hardly heard his words.

The princess looked up at the sudden movement of her father moving past Lord Eddard, roughly knocking Robb on the shoulder in good natured greeting, to turn his keen eyes to his eldest child. It was rather scandalous for any man, to almost completely ignore the heir of the castle and to immediately turn to the man's wife, but Robb and Sylvia cared little for such tedious social norms today.

Her father hadn't changed at all really, but it had only been two years since the wedding—two years since he'd dealt her the worst embarrassment she'd ever known. Most of her wedding day had been wonderful, especially the very end where all the rest of the world had been shut out, leaving only her and Robb in a wonderful ball of warmth and sweetness. But there was a bit of a wound left where her father had acted the drunken fool before the eyes of her new family, shaming her and hurting her more than ever before. It had been her wedding day! How could father have acted like that? At some point, she'd wished Ser Fredrick and King Robert's positions were switched.

All the same, Sylvia was pleased to see him; now was not the time to linger on such ugly thoughts. Father was here, and he seemed ten times more elated to see her than he had during her wedding, and when he looked so merry it was easy to forget his drunken failures. He wanted to meet Mini, and the excitement of that overrode the unpleasant memories of her wedding. Sylvia met her father's ocean blue eyes, and was suddenly struck by how... _happy_ he looked. She could not recall a time when he looked that elated without a goblet of wine in hand.

"Sylvia..." he rumbled with a merry smile. Beneath her skirt, Sylvia prepared to curtsey.

"Father—" she managed just before he hugged her, his big meaty arms engulfing her smaller frame completely. The king's daughter froze, finding this sudden display of affection somewhat out of character for her father, at least when it was extended onto her before the eyes of so many. After a moment, the princess relaxed, her nose breathing in deep the smell of leather and wine and sweat, the warm and tight constriction of his arms around her making her feel like a little girl. The last time he'd hugged her so tightly was when she'd left him in the Capitol.

When he pulled away again a short moment later, Mini grumbled and blinked at the sudden light, drawing her grandfather's attention.

"Let me see her, girl. Let me see her." King Robert demanded, as his eyes set on the bundle in his eldest child's arms. Obediently, Sylvia adjusted Mini in her arms so the king could see her little face peeking out from her swaddling. Mini blinked her innocent blue eyes at the king, indifferent as children are, to the status of the fat man before her, and gave a frustrated squeal once more. The king laughed heartily. "Minisa, is it? Ah, yes, little wolf with a Baratheon's fury." He chuckled. Sylvia smiled back, chin lifting proudly as her father praised her daughter. **  
**

The king waved a finger under Mini's chin before moving on to Sansa. The exchange was short, but he'd acknowledged her and had been pleased, which was all Sylvia had wanted.

* * *

Queen Cersei blinked at the sudden onslaught of light as she stepped out of the wheelhouse. The dreary sight of the grim hovel of Winterfell laid a stone upon her heart. She could have lived the rest of her life happily without setting foot in the cold waste she was in now. But Robert so dearly wanted Ned Stark as his Hand...and Sylvia, her little doe, waited for them to meet her child. The golden haired queen's mouth tightened. Once more, she felt very old, despite the fact that her youngest child was only six, and men throughout the kingdoms proclaimed she was the most beautiful woman in existence although she'd borne four children.

How she wished to be back in the Capitol, where it was warm and safe, and where she could continue her dealings uninterrupted. Loose ends needed to be snipped; steps had to be taken to ensure no one else found out what Jon Arryn had. This whole interval was a distraction and a dangerous one at that. Everyone would _see_ , everyone would realize how different Sylvia was from her brothers and sister. Three beautiful children with golden mane's, emerald jewels for eyes and the proud stance of a lion, while her eldest grew long tendrils of onyx, sported the ocean eyes of a Baratheon, and held the docile nature of a stag.

Jaime had been right all those years ago, when he told her it would be safer to let Robert ship her away. Her children were in danger, by simply being in the same holdfast as their elder sister. If anyone suspected, she would make Jaime kill them, before they could breathe a word.

Despite her worry, her children, (apart from Joffrey who shared his mother's disdain for the frozen land to the north), seemed quite excited to visit Winterfell, to see the sister who was more a stranger, and meet the child she'd birthed over half a year ago. Sweet Myrcella had been chirping away about Sylvia to Tommen more often as of late, relaying all her fondest memories of their sister, while Joffrey rolled his eyes in contempt. He'd called her memories a child's fantasy, that Sylvia had never been all that Myrcella described. The queen knew that wasn't true; she'd often seen the two girls play together, but did not move to correct her darling boy.

Now they were here, to the bleak and dim place that had fashioned her daughter into the Stark's pawn, to bend as they wished using her defenceless heart, her love for Robb Stark and the child he'd given her, against her. Robert had mentioned finding Joffrey a wife, and Pycelle told her that her husband wondered on marrying him to Ned Stark's eldest daughter. After the initial revulsion, Cersei realised she could repay the Starks for turning her daughter against her, by taking young Sansa Stark from them, making her Joffrey's queen and loyal only to the crown _. A daughter for a daughter_ , she had thought.

The lioness lowered her gaze from the battlements and high towers of Winterfell castle, and passed her emerald eyes over the dour household gathered about the courtyard. Nothing had changed and once more, she wished Robert had listened to her for once, and married Sylvia to someone from the west. She would have been happy there, warm and safe...the western lands grew such beautiful lilies, and she knew Sylvia would have loved that. That would never happen now that she'd given Robb Stark a child; even if the boy died, the Starks would never let the baby go and Sylvia would never abandon her daughter. 

Finally, as she passed over the grim face of Lord Stark and then his even grimmer son, the queen caught sight of her eldest, holding a fur wrapped bundle out to her father. Her sweet little doe smiled so prettily at Robert, and Cersei remembered when she'd done the same with him, only holding her sweet baby twins out for him to see, their little prince and princess. Who could have ever wished for such a blessing? The queen shivered under her fox pelt, a pinch of grief striking her heart at remembering the bliss she'd once known so momentarily. Those days were a thousand years gone, just like her Steffon, and still, the pain was as sharp and fresh as the first day. But her girl still remained, and she'd not only lived, but prospered. She'd grown into a fanciful little girl, an elegant lady, and now was a wife and mother.

Cersei had been so sure that after Steffon had gone, Sylvia was sure to follow. _One cannot live with half a soul_ , she'd wept into Jaime's shoulder once. One twin cannot live without the other, but somehow, Sylvia _had_. Despite the pain Sylvia brought by reminding her every day of the little boy she'd lost, Cersei knew it would be far more painful—if not unbearable—to live in a world where her eldest girl was not. She loved her daughter, as much as she loved her golden cubs, and no one, not even her beloved twin, could take that away.

Her sweet twin, the other half of her...she only felt whole, only felt safe when he was with her, inside her, by her side where he was meant to be. She needed him now, to remind her that their children were safe, that he would kill anyone who would threaten them without delay. The golden haired queen tore her eyes away from her daughter to search for her brother. Almost at once, her green eyes were drawn to Jaime's strong form as he stood beside Joff, their darling little boy. She smiled a little. Her son was like his father, strong, handsome, fierce and powerful, nothing at all like that fat oaf Robert. Thank the gods it was Jaime who had planted him inside her—after years of pain and humiliation under Robert as his wife, she never wanted him to leave her with anything ever again—not a bruise, not his seed.

Sylvia and Steffon had been the only good thing Robert had ever given her (besides a crown), but Steffon was gone and Sylvia was distant, while Jaime had given her three beautiful lion cubs.

Speaking of her cubs, she heard sweet Myrcella and gentle Tommen emerge from the wheelhouse as well, their gentle footsteps pattering over the soggy earth to stand neatly behind her, their septa behind them.

"So, where is she?" she heard Tommen ask.

"Erm...oh, over there, see? The one with the black hair, with father." Myrcella whispered back, giddiness evident in her soft voice. Of her three children, Myrcella was most excited to see Sylvia again. They were sisters, best friends really, always together talking and whispering and giggling and playing. Cersei knew their bond had suffered over time, along with the fact they could never be as close as Sylvia would have been with Steffon, but Myrcella was very happy to see her elder sister, and never once voiced any complaints or doubts about the visit.

"Oh...She's nice right? Like you promised?" Tommen asked timidly. Despite his elder sister's stories about Sylvia, Joffrey's words against the eldest princess seeped into Tommen's head and made him doubtful and shy of Sylvia.

"Yes, Tom. I would never lie to you. Sylvie loves you, she tells me so in her letters sometimes." The queen did not need to look back to know her little cub was smiling and blushing.

The queen pulled her eyes away from her son and brother, fisted her skirt out of the way and moved forward, her eyes still trained on her daughter's face. As Robert moved on to the pretty redhead he meant to make Joffrey's queen, Cersei gave Lord Stark a soft, civil smile and offered her hand. As before, the icy old lord kissed her knuckles swiftly, as his little wife curtseyed deeply. Cersei hardly paid attention, and once she'd offered them a brief word of greeting, the queen walked past them and to her daughter.

Her little doe looked up, her eyes alight, and a sweet smile on her lips. "Mother," she said.

"Sylvia darling," her mother replied. Gracefully, the queen leant down and kissed her daughter's cheek, her arms coming up to embrace her, but not as tightly as her father had. A soft coo came from the infant in her arms, and as she pulled away, the queen looked down at her grandchild...and held her breath, biting her cheek so hard she drew a little blood.

She was a little black haired beauty. Her son had been beautiful too, hair as black as a raven's wing, eyes as crystal clear as the shimmering sea. Like her mother, this little baby had such dark hair but did not resemble her mother's twin beyond that. Still, it was her downy onyx hair that brought upon memories of her son, which cracked against her heart mercilessly. She steeled herself, and smiled at the infant, thinking that her daughter did mother quite a beautiful babe.

"Minisa, after Robb's grandmother," she heard her daughter say. The queen grinned at her daughter, giving her an affectionate rub on the arm, her eyes betraying nothing. She _needed_ Jaime, she needed him desperately after this; she needed to forget her troubles and worries and old drudged up pain in his arms. In the warmth and strength of his embrace, when he was in her, around her, and melded with her, nothing could ever be wrong, at least in that moment. The baby gave another impatient grunt.

"She's beautiful," the queen managed.

Mother looked like she was about to say something more, when father broke out, "Ned! Your crypts!"

As before, mother protested with regal grace, but father heard none of it, and at once, both he and Lord Eddard had disappeared through the archway leading into the catacombs beneath Winterfell. Sylvia looked back at Robb, knowing he was watching the two men disappear as the rest of them had. He met her eyes, hard and lordly, and she hoped he truly understood why she never wanted Mini to be named Lyanna.

"My queen," Lady Catelyn broke in, trying to diffuse the awkwardness. "Please, do me the honour of showing you to your chambers. You must be weary after so long a journey. Robb will show Prince Joffrey to his, and I'm sure Sylvia would be more than happy to see to the younger prince and princess."

Queen Cersei looked back to the elder woman, he eyes now cold as she watched her husband descend into the wretched dark void leading to the crypts where his beloved corpse rested. After a terrible second, the queen gave her a tight smile, and glided towards her. Robb touched his wife's arm tenderly as a farewell, and moved towards the prince and his tall handsome uncle, solemn and serious.

"Sylvie!" she heard a soft girl's voice cry with glee. Sylvia hardly managed a cry in reply, before her little sister's arms wrapped around her waist. She looked down into her golden curls, her head now reaching past her bosom, and Sylvia's heart ached so sweetly. Oh, how her sweet little sister had grown! Somewhere, in the back of her mind, Sylvia still half thought Cella would be the little four year old she had been when she left the Capitol. But six years had aged her sister, and now here she was, just over eleven and grown so much. She wriggled her arm out from under her baby and wound it around her sister's shoulders. In her arms, Mini cooed once more, but she didn't sound so distressed this time.

As Joffrey followed Robb into the castle, walking past his sisters, the young prince rolled his eyes. Princess were supposed to be proper, and controlled. To show such emotion was undignified and womanly. Stupid girls.

Soon, Myrcella pulled away to look up at her sister, her big green eyes shining happily at her blue. She looked so much like mother, Sylvia thought, all of her beauty and grace. She didn't think she'd been this happy since Mini was born, her heart so elated and warm she thought she would spontaneously start dancing like a fool. She leaned down and kissed Myrcella's cheeks, giggling when Myrcella giggled at the old familiar contact. How sweet it was to see her sister after so long without her.

Then her eyes glanced up and caught sight of the small golden haired little boy starring bewilderedly behind Myrcella, and her heart stumbled. She knew him at once. He looked a lot like Uncle Jaime, somehow. His nose would grow long like his; he had the golden hair and green eyes of the Lannister house, and the strong square shape of uncle Jaime's jaw. She pulled away from Myrcella and smiled at him. The King's Guard and Robert's household were moving behind him, taking the luggage and crates away to the rooms and stores. The Starks household still remained, but soon they would be set back to work, helping the royal convey to settle in.

"Tommen?" she asked. He nodded. She smiled brightly. "I'm your sister, Sylvia." She shifted the baby in her arms. "This is my daughter Mini." Both Tommen and Myrcella eyed the little bundle curiously. It was a rare thing for them to see a baby, and it was a rightly fascinating thing. "The last time I saw you," Sylvia pondered out loud, "you were still just a swell beneath mother's dress." Tommen smiled, but it was a weak, timid smile. "You're tall now. You'll be taller than Joffrey's Hound one day."

"M-mother makes me eat my beets. She-she says they'll make me tall and strong." He offered timidly. Little Tommen Baratheon was so very aware that this stranger woman was his sister, but still, he was afraid she would laugh at him like Joffrey. She seemed happy to see Cella, but she knew her. What if she didn't like him? What if she called him stupid and weak and pathetic like Joffy had, so many times before? Would mother tell her to stop? Yet as she smiled so kindly at him, his fears began to melt away. _Well,_ he thought, _if Cella likes her so much, and Joffy won't talk to her, how scary can she be?_

"Mmm, mother used to make me eat beets as well, but I was never as tall as you when I was six."

"Really? I don't like beets."

"Nor do I." And just like that, Sylvia earned her first real smile from her littlest brother.


	12. Fly or Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "As my sister," he continued. "It is my duty to associate with you on formal occasions. It is not courteous to deny me my right."
> 
> When had he ever been interested in brotherly duty? "Yes, of course." She answered politely.
> 
> Joffrey's eyes narrowed down at her, annoyed and burning. "I was quite surprised when mother told me you were pregnant."
> 
> "Yes, it was quite a shock to us all." She replied honestly, still looking over his shoulder. She spied Sansa back at the tables, watching the dancing bodies with envy, her bright, joyful eyes finding her and Joffrey once too often to be a coincidence.
> 
> "Why?" he asked cruelly. "Does your husband not visit you?"

**Chapter 9: Fly or Die**

_Give me hope in silence_   
_It's easier; It's kinder_   
_Tell me not of heartbreak_   
_It plagues my soul, plagues my soul_

_The Enemy by Mumford & Sons_

The feast was as grand as it had been at Robb and Sylvia Stark's wedding, the Great Hall of Winterfell awash with drunken banner men and household servants, food scattered about the tables and endless drink flowing from pitchers and into her father's cup.

He was down between the tables with the men, rather than beside his queen up on the dais, laughing and joking, grabbing and pinching at the serving wenches as they passed. She avoided looking at him, and did her best to be deaf and blind to his embarrassing mirth. The wound ached a little less this time, since it was not her wedding and she'd somewhat expected it this time, but still, she wished men had the same restrictions set upon them as women had.

A woman could never do anything close to what her father had done all her life, but a man ( _any_ man), could. But why should he be permitted to? It wasn't as though his actions were not damaging, and yet he acted as though they weren't, and because he was the king, no one said a word against him. He was her father—she'd admired him as a girl, loved him dearly and he was shaming her mother, her brothers and sister, _her_ and in the home of her husband.

It is a difficult thing to realize the one you'd always painted as flawless, in truth, has more faults than you could understand.

She was grateful mother had dismissed Tommen and Myrcella to bed so early, for they should not see father like this as she had.

Sylvia sat by Robb, his lips finding her ear often enough, making her giggle and blush at his words, and forget for a moment about her father. With Tommen and Myrcella gone, there was now a large gap between her and Joffrey, one that neither of them seemed keen on closing. She had not yet had any real interaction with Joffrey; he'd spent the afternoon touring the grounds with her husband and father-in-law, and then preparing for the feast. All that Robb had said when he returned to her was that Joffrey had been haughty and "looked at Winterfell as though he'd smelled something foul".

That wasn't so terrible, she supposed, but the hour was early and it would not shock her greatly if her golden brother was still as nasty as he had been six years before.

Part of her hoped that Joffrey would remain a hermit this entire visit, so he would not spread any foul rumours about her, nor blind Sansa with his glittering title; the latter of which seeming to be futile, judging by the hardly concealed looks of longing that Sansa kept shooting her little brother. She prayed for Sansa's sake that he'd grown out of being a bully.

Across from Robb was Theon, laughing and chewing a roll of bread, and to Robb's left was Bran. The little climber listened intently to every derogatory thing Theon said, trying to fit in with the older boys, although he hardly understood what it was Theon was saying. Sylvia smiled at Bran and proceeded to make conversation about what he thought about the sudden onslaught of knights in the castle. The boy latched onto the question, and gave her a long winded speech on his plans to watch them fight. 

At the end of the table were Sansa, her friend Jeyne Poole, and across from her, was Arya, deviously rolling her peas about her plate. Jon Snow, the poor boy, had been confined to the lower tables as though he were a simple castle dweller, and not Ned Stark's son; Lady Catelyn had deemed him to shameful to seat him amongst the Starks and their royal guests. Sylvia thought it a bit pointless, since her own father, their king was currently behaving worse than Jon Snow on his moodiest days.

Still, Jon had departed from the feast quite early, taking a full chicken with him to feed his Ghost, who was chained in the kennels with his brothers and sisters.

Her uncle Tyrion had not been seen since he'd finished his supper, while her uncle Jaime prowled about the Hall, his proud smirk dimming as he eyed the king with the rest of the drunken louts, his sister watching her husband with an old, tired kind of fury.

Renly, to her disappointment, was not in attendance, having stayed behind in the Capitol to "tend to the King's affairs" whilst his elder brothers deserted the Capitol. She'd have to complain to him in her next letter, scolding him for leaving her alone with the likes of Joffrey. Renly had been the only one she could truly confide in about Joffrey's wretchedness.

While Renly stayed in the Capitol for noble reasons, they said Stannis had left King's Landing shortly after Jon Arryn's death. Some said he missed his wife and daughter, and others said he disliked the Capitol without the wise voice of The Hand at the council table. For whatever reason, Sylvia did not care. Uncle Stannis had never been really sweet to her, but he wasn't like Jaime. She didn't understand _how_ they were different in their manner towards her, but they simply _were_.  In any case, she knew who she preferred. The answer would _not_ please her mother, that was true. 

So, with little else in mind, she was more concerned over the fact that Renly was not there with her, to moon over her Mini as Tommen and Myrcella had. He'd love to see her, she was sure of it, but he had remained behind. Hopefully he would come to see her before Mini was a woman.

As the night wore on, the Great Halls doors opened and shut once more, a lone figure in a black cloak going unnoticed by everyone in the loud frenzied merriment of the room. Unnoticed, until he crept up next to his elder brother, and greeted him with a jape.

Benjen Stark, a renowned Ranger of the Night's Watch and Eddard Stark's brother, had come to visit his brother and his family a night or two before he traveled further south in search of new recruits. Sylvia had met him once, about three years before, when he'd traveled to Winterfell for the same purpose. He was a kind man, clever and only a little stern when it concerned his family.

Robb's eyes brightened when he'd spotted his uncle, gently lacing his fingers with his wife's and leading her to where his father and uncle spoke. Uncle Benjen smiled when Robb spoke out in greeting, accepting Robb in a hug.

"How are you lad?" asked the black brother happily.

"I'm good." Robb replied. "Still in one piece?" his uncle grinned.

"Fatherhood suits ya." Benjen quipped as he pulled back, making Robb smile a little wider. Benjen's keen icy eyes drifted to her, losing none of its warmth. "And motherhood defiantly agrees with you, lass." Sylvia grinned as Benjen leaned forward, taking one of her hands in his gloved ones, and pecking her cheek swiftly, his whiskers prickling her skin.

"It's good to see you, uncle." She replied.

"You too, dear. How is your daughter? She good? Strong, healthy?" he asked the girl standing prettily beside Robb. Donning the black and swearing vows to the Wall meant that your life before you uttered those ancient words was forfeit. You are reborn in the ice and cold, pledged to be loyal to nothing but the Watch, and no one but your brothers. For most men, it was easy. They came from squalor and had nothing to miss besides the warmth of the sun and the guiltless pleasures a woman could offer. But Benjen Stark had come from a family, a place where he was comfortable and loved. He was, and always would be, loyal to the Watch, to the realm and his vows, but he could not sever the bond he had with his brother. They were the only two of their siblings left.

"She's well. Very happy, very strong. She's also made friends with Grey Wind. She's even taking to sleeping with him by the fire, and she's even started chewing her toys like he does." The southern girl replied in a disapproving tone.

"The _direwolf?"_ Benjen smiled _._ "Brave little Stark, she is. She'll be riding on his back before she's five." The men chuckled. Sylvia's lips twitched into a wry grin. She was still not wholly comforted with the two together so closely, as Grey Wind's teeth and claws were always forefront in her mind.

Benjen departed from them a few exchanges later, nodding fondly to his elder brother then clapping Robb on the back, before seeking out the other Stark children. Before he left, Sylvia made him promise to set time aside to meet Robb's child before he traveled a little farther south to gather more recruits.

Twice that night, father returned to the royal dais: the first time was to obtain his ale horn which held more drink than a goblet and to return the deep scowl the queen sent him. The second time was to announce that the music and dance commence.

With a sharp clap, the tables were pulled against the walls, and the bards started crowing, the lutes began strumming and the flutes and tambourines began chiming out through the sweet, smoky air. Just hearing those gorgeous melodies made Sylvia's feet tap under the table.

Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn began the dance at the behest of the king, since he was too into his cups to manage a graceful glide around the floor with his queen. Robb stood, and held his hand out to her, his lips quirked up in a little smile that did not meet his eyes. She knew he hated dancing; it was "unmanly". Ser Rodrik had taught him while women dance to the musical litany of flute and harp, men dance to the grading clash of steel against steel. Still, Sylvia loved to dance, and he would endure it for no one, besides her, and perhaps his mother or sisters.

As she rose her hand to slip into her husband's calloused palm, her mother softly called from behind her, freezing her hand just inches from his.

"Sylvia," the queen called, sitting up with renewed interest, her stag's antler tiara gleaming in the torch light. "My sweet, why don't you dance with your brother? You have been apart for so long, and you've not spent time with him since he arrived."

Sylvia licked her suddenly dry lips and replied in a careful, timid voice. "It's the first dance mother. It is only proper that I dance with my husband." Cersei's golden brows pinched together. It was rare, _exceedingly rare_ , for Sylvia to deny her, and never before had she done it in public. Had it been anyone else, the queen would have softly growled at the unfortunate fool to speak against a lioness, but it was her _daughter_ who defied her. Knowing this ignited an ache within her, one that was not quite anger, nor quite hurt, but burning all the same.

"Yes," she continued, her sweet soft voice giving nothing away. "But Joffrey is the Crown Prince. And your _brother_ , my sweet. You've not seen him in years, and I'm _sure_ your husband can part with but _one_ dance." Robb's ears burned. Although it sounded like the queen was being reasonable and logical, he couldn't help but get the sense that she was trying to shame him somehow. He put the feeling from his mind. Regardless, the woman was both the queen and his wife's mother and it would not do to think ill of her.

"Come sister," Joffrey's smooth, slick voice sounded near the end of the table. The heir of Winterfell and the princess looked back to her brother, a cold dread seating within her at noticing that familiar smirk spreading across his face. He strutted closer and held out his hand. When had he gotten taller than her? "We mustn't disappoint mother."

Sylvia turned to Robb in spite of herself, silently asking him what to do, to save her from this horrid situation. She didn't want to dance with Joffrey, she scarcely desired to even touch him, but it was difficult for her to deny her mother what she wanted. "Go," her husband finally said. "Dance with your brother but, save for me, a precious slice of your company." She couldn't help but grin at him.

Joffrey's hand was firm and smooth around hers as he pulled her to the floor, and when he pulled her to him to begin the dance, his hand was a bit too insistent on her waist, pulling her too close. But his feet was fluid and pristine. As the music swelled, he spoke softly to her, his words drowning in the volume of the music, audible to no one but her.

"It is a great honour to dance with your prince." He spoke in a voice too calm for his nature. "You would do well to remember, since you seem to have forgotten during your time in this... _place_." he spat the last word as though it were a filthy curse. She looked away from him, opting to people watch over his shoulder, watching Lord and Lady Stark dance gracefully around the growing crowd. She spied her mother watching from the dais. She heard her father roar out a great belly shaking laugh, and saw Robb, laughing with Theon, as Bran grinned uncertainly beside him.

This _place_ was her home.

The princess clenched her jaw. She had no right to be offended when she'd been just as disgusted by the north the first time she'd come there, but she'd grown to love it, and this was her home now, no matter what. A storm was rising, she could feel it through her skin, and she tried not to allow his quip bother her too much, else she'd be in tears before the end of the dance. Finally she replied. "I am surprised you didn't extend such an honour to Sansa. She is quite taken by you, I must say." _Although I dearly wish she wasn't,_ she added silently.

"She doesn't interest me right now." He countered. He spun her suddenly, nearly causing her to fall, before she quickly righted herself. He pulled her back, a little too roughly for her liking and her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "As _my_ sister," he continued. "It is my duty to associate with you on formal occasions. It is not _courteous_ to deny me my right."

When had he ever been interested in brotherly duty? "Yes, of course." She answered politely.

Joffrey's eyes narrowed down at her, annoyed and burning. "I was quite surprised when mother told me you were pregnant."

"Yes, it was quite a shock to us all." She replied honestly, still looking over his shoulder. She spied Sansa back at the tables, watching the dancing bodies with envy, her bright, joyful eyes finding her and Joffrey once too often to be a coincidence.

"Why?" he asked cruelly. "Does your husband not visit you?" the abruptness of the question shocked her into silence, her feet freezing in place for a moment, before starting again when he pulled on her hands. She looked at him, her eyes wide with shock, hoping to find some jape or regret in his eyes, but only seeing in those emerald orbs that same awful glee that once made her cry. "Is he flaccid? Or does he prefer whores? He certainly is treating you like one, whispering in your ear constantly, pawing at you, pressing close. Mother must be ashamed. Is the whelp even his? It doesn't look like him." He continued, each and every word punctuated by a quick move of his feet. All of a sudden she was six years old again, stunned and damaged beyond measure when her _little brother_ , (having heard the rumours at court), mercilessly asked if she was a bastard of their father's infidelity their mother suffered with.

She felt as though she'd been slapped, the pain shocking and infuriating, spreading all over as her heart beat faster, the urge to cry and strike back battling within her. The image of her sweet, darling Mini flashed before her eyes, and rage hotter than she'd ever felt ignited inside her.

"How _dare_ you?" she hissed out in astonishment. Of all the awful things he could say, she'd never thought he'd have the audacity to question her daughter's paternity—in her own _home_ , after _hardly looking_ at the child! She wanted to hurt him, to slap him—to claw at him, to tear out his _eyes_ — to see what he'd do. When he threw a fit, she'd tell father what he'd said and Joffrey would get what he deserved. But mother would be angry, and she knew she'd take Joffrey's side as she always had, and she could not bear to see her mother take Joffrey's side on _this,_ when his words hurt her so. "How can you say such terrible things to me, your own _sister_? In my own home? About your _niece_?" she asked with a barely controlled tremor in her voice.

"Because I can." He answered simply. "I am the prince. And from what I've seen, they're true assumptions. I will be your king one day, remember that sister?"

"Prince, brother, king or not, you will not speak to me that way. I am your _blood_. _Never_ speak about my daughter and husband in such a way _again_." She spat, a threat on the tip of her tongue, but it could not pass, for reasons she did not understand.

His eyes narrowed dangerously, his eyes burning emeralds, gleaming so hideously she bit back a tiny prickle of fear and stared back at him as he spoke. His hands tightened around her own, squeezing until she thought the fragile bones beneath her skin might break. "You can't talk to me like that." She tried to wretch her hands free, but to no avail. "I can say what I like!" He sounded indignant, and Sylvia remembered he was only a little boy who was unused to being fought. His eyes gleamed with malice that frightened her, but truly, he was just a bully.

"Then since you have no qualms of what you say, I will tell _father_ , word for word, and you and I know he would not stand for this insult." She felt a child for threatening to tell, but if it would put him in place for a while, she would take what she could. He glared at her, looking as though he wanted to strike her, but refrained. If he ever raised a hand to her, Robb would try to run a sword though him. He released her hands, slipping them from hers so quickly it was as though she'd burned him.

Without another glance at him, she strode from the floor, winding her way around swaying bodies in the midst of a song, and found her husband's side again, where she felt safe, where she felt calm. She did not hear any more horrid words from Joffrey's mouth calling after her, and she was thankful he had that much of a mind to keep their squabbles private. For now, at least.

Her fury was making her bold, and stupid. To play into Joffrey's attempts to anger her, would only shame her in the end. He was the prince, heir to the throne, while she was a lordling's wife. If a quarrel broke out between them, it was far more likely that the people believe Joffrey before her, simply because he was to be the king. Father might believe her, but he might be too "busy" to care. Still, the threat of his fury was enough to daunt Joffrey.

_And he is not the king_ yet, she thought hotly.

Her hands found one of her husband's, and without thinking, she lifted it to press a kiss to his knuckles. Robb turned from Theon while he was in the midst of telling a jape, and looked to her, surprised at her sudden affection. His smile fell when he saw the look in her eye and the tremulous smile on her lips.

As Joffrey stormed from the Great Hall, shoving the doors open in a furious fit of aggression, Robb leaned a bit closer and asked what had happened. His wife only shook her head, long strands of onyx hair falling from the intricate northern style piled on top of her head.

The young woman could almost feel her mother's stare behind her, and she had no wish to feel it the remainder of the night when mother would just scold her come the morning. She had to be away from here, away from the disapproving eyes of her mother, from the drunken bellows of her father, and from the view of the men that should not see her fall apart. She was a princess and one day she would be their lady and she had to be strong like her mother had always been. She had to be hard, she had to be steel. The only one who should see her wounds was Robb if she could help it.

She leaned forward to Robb and whispered that she wished to depart to bed.

Later he would ask what had happened in between the short time she'd gone to dance with him to the time she returned to his side, but all she would say was that Joffrey was a beastly little shit and that he had full permission to knock the boy senseless in the practice yard.

* * *

Since the feast, Joffrey had not spoken to her, although she had broken her fast with her mother and siblings the last two mornings. It was strange and familiar to eat the morning meal with her family once again, especially now that she sat with a babe in her arms. Father did not attend, and in his place, were her Uncle Tyrion and Uncle Jaime. As they had when she was little, Tyrion was happy to smile and tickle the baby, while Jaime was content in eating his breakfast, giving the baby one or two sidelong looks before resuming. It did not shock her in the slightest.

"Looks exactly like her mother, thank the gods." Tyrion had jested to Sylvia. 

The morning after the feast mother had called for her, just as she knew she would. Sylvia felt a child again as she stood before her mother, as though all her courage had fallen from her as the queen watched her. The queen lectured her daughter on the distasteful act of embarrassing Joffrey in front of his future subjects.

"He will be the king, one day, my dove." Queen Cersei addressed gently from behind her borrowed desk. "It does not invoke respect if his people see him shamed by his sister."

_He is not king yet,_ she had wanted to say _. He will have plenty of time to earn the northerners respect as I have. He was the one who shamed me, by saying such awful things._ She wanted to say all those things, to defend herself, to make her _see_...but mother had always taken Joffrey's side. Instead she said, "I'm sorry if he was embarrassed, but it was not my fault. He should have known what he said would upset me."

Her mother nodded, seeming pleased with that. "Next time, my dove, be mindful. To shame one of us, is to shame all of us. I will tell Joff the same." Her mother was gentle as she had always been when scolding her, but the old familiar burn singed her skin when her mother dismissed her.

She was thankful her nasty little brother left her be, but she supposed it was because he had focussed his attentions on Sansa instead. He'd taken walks with her to the godswood, chaperoned, _of course_ , by two Stark guardsmen and Joffrey's Hound. Rumours had spread, reaching her ears by the second morning. Elane told her that she'd heard from one of the queen's handmaidens that her father wanted to double the bond between the Starks and the crown, by making Sansa Joffrey's queen. The idea was repellant, and laughable. Sylvia herself had already bound the north to the crown; there was no need to marry Joffrey to Sansa and it would only serve to offend the other houses who wished for their daughters to become queen.

She had not heard anything on the matter from her mother, her father, Lord Eddard or Lady Catelyn, and supposed it was only kitchen gossip cropping up in response to Joffrey's interest in Sansa. The young woman prayed it was so, she prayed some other girl had the honour of becoming Joffrey's queen.

* * *

"Your brother is truly a little shit." Robb huffed to her on the third day of the royal visit. The hour was late, and Robb had only just returned from a meeting with his father and her father. Mini already slept soundly in her cradle, and she'd already changed into her sheer night dress when he returned to their chambers, his curls mussed and his eyes a step slightly heavy on the floor.

She did not know _what_ they talked of that kept him busy half the night, but Robb returned to her smelling of wine and slightly drunk. She couldn't see Robb drinking too much in front of her father intentionally—that would be dishonourable—so her father must have _ordered_ him to drink. The picture her mind created of her father commanding his son in law to drink was amusing, because what could Robb do but agree?

"I _warned_ you." She replied with a slight shake of her head.

"You did, and you were right about...you have g-gorgeous eyes, sweetling." The southern girl tried to hide her smile. Yes, the wine was defiantly affecting him.

"You're eyes are prettier, darling." She countered as she started on the laces of his doublet. "So what makes you say that my brother is a little twat?" She looked up at him, the sleeves of her dress falling to the crook of her elbows, gooseflesh forming at the sudden chill and hardening the pale brown nipples on each of her breasts.

" _Little shit_ ," he corrected, his throat bobbing when he glanced down at her breasts. "O-on top of the fact that he was _too good_ to sit in on the meeting with father and I, he wanted _live_ steel in the practice yard today. Bran's s'never used _live_ steel, and he expected 'im and Prince Tommen to hack at each other like a couple've drunkards in a tavern brawl. Little shit stuck up his nose and sauntered off when Ser Rodrick refused to indulge him." Sylvia said nothing, and continued unlacing his doublet, her dark brows narrowed. Through his slightly clouded mind, Robb thought that he may have said something to upset her. "Forgive me; I know he's your brother—"

"They both are—him and Bran are both my brothers; but Joffrey is _wrong_. _Utterly_. Stupid little prick." She began to yank at his laces harder than needed, her fury growing with each word and every tug. "What was he _thinking?_ _Live steel_. They're little boys! Bran can hardly lift a real sword, and Tommen is _smaller_ than Bran! If Ser Rodrik had allowed such foolery, _who knows_ what could have happened. I know they'll learn someday, but they're too young and small for live steel!"

"I know," Robb offered, but she made no indication she'd heard.

"Creating bad blood between our families, Seven Hells. _"_ she ended with a harsh yank to his doublet laces. The center line of his chest exposed, the pale skin glowing in the soft candle light. She spied the fine auburn curls of hair there, and her fingers twitched with the desire to stroke them as she had countless times before. A warm heat licked up her chest and to her neck. Robb's hands suddenly came up to cradle her neck, his fingers coming to curl around to the back of her neck, as his thumbs trailed over her cheek in a rather tender fashion. He tilted her head up so he could look at her face. She could feel his breath on her lips, and his beautiful eyes gleamed with sincerity as he looked back at her.

It didn't matter that he was a little inebriated, because in that moment, he looked so certain, so honest. The prickles of her anger began to ebb away.

"We're _married..._ with Mini. Joffrey can never change that, no matter how stupid and careless he is. He can't tear us apart."

"I know. I know." She murmured, her hands coming up to grip his wrists, her thumb stroking the skin there absently. "But he's the idiot who will one day be king. At this rate, the realm is doomed." She pouted.

His eyes narrowed but smiled down at her wickedly. "I don't care. I have _you_. I love you more than anything. S'all that matters to me." Her lips widened into a grin, her hands coming up to push the loosened doublet from his shoulders. Her fingernails ghosted along his arms as she pushed it away, the warmth in her belly growing as she followed her fingers with her eyes as they traveled back up his arm, finally coming to a stop at his collar bone. His hands gripped at her hips once they were freed, holding her tight to him.

"I think you're trying to seduce me." She smiled wickedly, looking up at him through her lashes. He pulled her tighter against him, pressing his forehead against hers.

"Is it working?" he smirked.

"What do you think?" She wrapped her arms around him, kissing him and giggling against his lips when he mumbled something about her tasting sweet.

* * *

The next day, Sylvia bid farewell to her husband as he and the other men rode out to the Wolf's Wood to hunt. He kissed her sweetly, his mouth soft since he was now beardless and reminded her of the night before. He held Mini's small hand a moment as a farewell, before mounting his dappled grey horse.

The castle seemed so bare without the majority of the men there, and it was a little unnerving. A few months after arriving at Winterfell, Old Nan, an aged wet-nurse, and grandmother to the sweet giant Hodor, had regaled she and the Stark children about the ghosts of Winterfell. There was a bloody knight who was murdered by his lady's brother after her strangled her in a jealous rage; an old king without a leg who is forever wandering the halls in search of his lost appendage, and a woman who was always crying for reasons no one knew. The princess did not believe in ghosts, but walking along the cold corridors without a single soul in sight, left her reminding herself that there was no such thing as phantoms.

She clutched her shawl tighter around her shoulders, her arm tensing as she held it around her daughter.

Finally she reached the private solar where sweet Myrcella and gentle Tommen waited for her. With the hunting party departed, Sylvia arranged a luncheon for herself and her two youngest siblings, something she hadn't been able to so with Joffrey lurking about. Joffrey, thank the gods, had chosen to go with the men, allowing them to visit in peace without his awful presence or mother's disproving eyes hanging over them. Mother had not been seen since she broke her fast in the Great Hall, and neither had Uncle Jaime, but that was alright. She was content with it being just the four of them now, allowing herself and her siblings to reacquaint themselves properly without the outside influence of Joffrey upon them.

"She's so little!" Myrcella marveled as she stared down at her niece. Mini blinked up at her young aunt, taking in the strange soft features she had never seen before, and then going on to study a golden lock of hair clasped tightly in her pudgy hands.

"When she first came, she was much tinier. Tiny little nose, tiny little feet, _tiny_ little hands..." Sylvia recalled with a fond smile. Her sweet girl had grown so much in the past eight moons that she wished time would slow a little. Lady Catelyn once said, that in a blink of an eye, her children had been at breast, looking up at their mother's face with astonished blue eyes which matched her own. And now her eldest was a man grown, married with a child of his own, the first of a new generation who would carry on the Stark's legacy. "When she was still in my belly, she could kick so hard it hurt. Funny how something so little is so strong."

"She's getting, erm, heavy. Can you take her again?" the golden haired princess asked.

"And heavy," Her elder sister smirked. She took the babe in her arms again and settled back against the chair. Tommen didn't want to hold her as he was too afraid he might hurt her, and settled for nibbling a lemon cake.

It was marvelous to have her siblings so close to her, to hear their voices and see their smiles. It was different from the time she spent with Robb's siblings. There was a keener sense of _belonging_ with Tommen and Myrcella.

Finally seeing her sister again, and at last meeting her littlest brother had been a joy that she would always hold in her heart, carefully embedded into the very core of her, to remember for always when they were gone again. Tommen was nothing like Joffrey, thank the gods. Sweet and timid and gentle in nature as a little fawn, not at all the arrogant, _mean_ little lion cub Joffrey had always been. Myrcella was just as she remembered, but in addition to the sweet girl she'd played with, there was also a princess: proper, courteous and composed.

Thus far, their visit had been a happy one. As the sun moved behind the clouds the three revisited memories and shared new ones with each other, laughing and enjoying what bit of affection grew and flourished between them in the last three days since the royal arrival.

"And th-then Lady Bunbun hopped across Uncle Renly's boot, and he didn't see her at first but when he did, he screamed like a girl! He jumped higher than Lady Bunbun _ever_ has!" Sweet Tommen recounted with the bright, unblemished mirth of a child. His elder sisters giggled, the one with golden hair delicately covering her mouth with her dainty fingers, as the eldest with onyx hair laughed uninhibited. The young prince smiled proudly. There wasn't much he was good at, Joffy always pointed that out. But he was better at this, than his older brother could ever be: making his sisters happy. Joffrey could never do that; he'd never _wanted_ to do that.

Sylvia licked her dry lips, still smiling when she said, "Oh, poor Uncle Renly. But I'd wager it was your poor little rabbit that was far more frightened." Mini babbled in her arms, and reached up a pudgy little hand to grip her mother's ear lobe.

"Oh, yes, I remember." Exclaimed Myrcella. "Lady Bunbun wouldn't stop shaking, and Tommen took her to dinner with him, and tried to feed her a fruit tart."

Tommen's ears colored red, and he looked down embarrassed. "I thought she would feel better if she had a sweet." The girls giggled again, but as Sylvia opened her mouth to ask if it had calmed the rabbit, the loud, foreign sound of bells rang loudly throughout Winterfell.

_Clangclangclag!_

Her smile faded, snapping her head around to peer out the window beside her, her long black hair falling over her shoulder. Vaguely, through the blurry glass, the princess could see the small bodies of people rushing back and forth in the yard below, their movements rushed and clumsy as though in terror.

The deep resounding knell of the bells suddenly made sense, and her fear rose with the volume of the bells. A quick flash of black caught her eye, and as she looked up towards the pale sky, she watched a moment as the ravens and crows took to the air.

"Bells? Why are they ringing? Is father back, Sylvie?" asked Tommen. Sylvia did not answer, the sound of those horrid bells filling her fast with dread. Bells only meant one of two things here in Winterfell: the birth of a Stark child, or an attack.

The last time they had been heard was the day Mini had come into the world.

She held the babe tighter. Her mind went wild with images of tall, hairy wildlings storming Winterfell, sharp malformed teeth grinning wickedly as they slaughtered the innocent. Or was it a fire overtaking the ancient walls, licking up the sides of the black stones and threatening to burn them from within? Or had someone been hurt? Had her father been hurt on the hunt? Had _Robb?!_

Just as she was about to race from the room and find someone to tell her what was happening, loud urgent raps landed on the door. The children yelped, Tommen clinging to Myrcella and Mini let out a frightened whimper against her mother's neck.

" _My Lady! My Lady Sylvia! Please!"_ came an unfamiliar voice from beyond the barrier of wood. His accent was that of a northerner which calmed her some. With steady hands she passed Mini over to Myrcella, the baby whining in protest. She strode to the door quickly, opening it but only allowing a small slit to view through. It was a guardsman with the Stark's sigil stitched to his chest, his sword still sheathed to his side, his eyes wide with dismay dancing in the dark depths.

"Are we under attack?" she demanded in a quick huff, mindful of the two younger children behind her listening with eager ears.

"No, my Lady, but..." he paused, fear and shock shining in his eyes.

"Well?" she asked impatiently.

"It-it is Bran, my Lady. He's fallen from the Broken Tower." He answered.

Everything stopped a moment, freezing with her heart in horror that quickly grew to disbelief.

"How can you tell such a horrid, wretched lie?" she hissed at the guardsman. Her breath was unsteady, tears sprouting in her blue eyes at the absolute horror at such a terrible thought the guardsman had dared to pose to her. "You," she drew in a sharp breath. "You tell me _now_ what is going on? _Bran never falls_. Ever. He's-he's climbed the tower a hundred times. He wouldn't—" his eyes grew sympathetic, and somewhere, deep inside, she knew what he said was true.

"I wish I were wrong, my Lady. But I saw the boy myself. He's fallen, his legs..." he broke off.

A quick huff of breath left her, and she could not seem to get enough after it escaped her lips. She felt cold. Her hands fell limp at her sides; her heart beating wildly as the only question left to her was formed on her trembling lips. "I-is he alive?" she rasped. She didn't see how; the Broken Tower was one of the highest points in Winterfell, so high you could see moorland for miles from the highest windows. One time, Bran had climbed all the way up to the top just to prove to her that he could.

Bran. _Sweet Bran_. The little boy who she had just talked to this morn about whether or not he'd been permitted to go on the hunt with the older men, the boy who loved riding and archery and dreamed all his life about being a knight in the King's Guard. Her heart ached as though being squeezed at the thought of poor Bran, who had always been so lively and carefree, an innocent child, guiltless in this world, lying limp and broken at the base of that tower.

It wasn't right,she thought with agony _._ He was too young; he was _just_ a little boy...

"Yes." A tiny fragile spark of hope ignited in her chest, one she clung to with all her being, unmindful that it could break her in the end.

"Lady Stark is aware, I trust?" he nodded. "Take me to her then." Wherever Lady Catelyn was, Bran would be and she needed to go to her good-mother. "And when you are done, you will find Elane and tell her to stay with Tommen, Myrcella and my own daughter until the queen comes to retrieve my brother and sister." He nodded again. She dearly wanted her Mini with her then, but she feared upsetting Lady Catelyn.

Sylvia blinked, her tears spilled, and a sob built in her chest, barely repressed by her tightly shut lips. If her brother and sister were not behind her, she would weep openly, even before the eyes of this stranger guardsman. But she did not want to frighten her siblings, and gasped for breath in an attempt to gain some semblance of composure. She couldn't stop picturing Bran, the last time she'd seen him at breakfast, so happy and bright, his little nameless direwolf trailing after him and nipping at his heels as he ran. Oh gods, please don't let that be the last time!

When her tears were cleaned from her cheeks, the princess turned back to the bemused and frightened children and her fresh tears gleamed in her eyes when she realized both Tommen and Myrcella were close in age with the boy near death. She could not... _imagine_ Mini in Bran's position, she did not want to because it made her feel ill. What must poor Catelyn be enduring?

"Wait here. I must go. Someone will come to you soon, I promise." Myrcella's face paled and Tommen looked as though he wanted to cry. "Do not fret; we are not in any danger, and the royal guardsmen are still protecting this room. But I must go. Take care of Mini until Elane comes."

"B-but I don't know how!" Myrcella exclaimed with sudden fear. Minisa squirmed in her aunt's arms, and Myrcella struggled to hold onto her.

"Ju-just," Sylvia sighed heavily. "Just lay her on the bed and let her crawl around on it. Keep her from the edges and make sure she doesn't fall off. A woman named Elane will be here soon and she will take care of her." Sylvia turned to leave.

"W-what's happened?" Myrcella asked.

Her elder sister paused and turned as she reached the door. "Just take care of Mini a little while." Without another word, Sylvia left, slamming the door shut and lifting her skirts up to her knees so she could run behind the guard, the bells still ringing their mournful chime throughout the halls.


	13. The Wolf and the Lioness

**Chapter 13 The Wolf and the Lioness**

Jaime was a beautiful fool, the queen thought hotly. Pushing the boy from that tower would only bring strife and suspicion, especially now that Eddard Stark would be Hand. She _despised_ the thought of another Hand lurking in the Keep, sniffing about and scheming behind her back. She'd endured Varys, Baelish and Jon Arryn plotting against her since she donned her crown, and now she had to content herself with Eddard Stark, father of the boy who'd stumbled upon their secret.

Robert had not suppressed his urges enough to go a night without rutting between a whore's legs despite the tragic turn, and so he slept apart from her tonight. She was glad for it. She could not bear his touch, and did not need him pawing and groping at her as she attempted to sort through this bloody mess Jaime put her through.

"I did it for _us_ ," he'd said just as the Stark boy fell from the window before she could demand what he'd done. "For you and me." He pulled her close then, her hands limp from shock at her sides. She refused to see Jaime now, no matter how badly she needed him beside her. She feared more eyes stumbling upon them now after that boy had caught them so easily.

Cersei had told her sweet brother to _wait_ , that in little over a month's time they would be back safe in the Capitol where there were a hundred secret spots they could go to. But Jaime had said he _had_ to have her, that he ached to be inside her after nearly three months of going without and his lips and fingers could be so very persuasive.

It had felt so deliciously wrong there in that tower, just under Robert and the Stark's noses where anyone could catch them. It had been a sweet, momentary pleasure, taboo and so exhilarating. They hadn't even removed all their clothes before he was in her. It had always been so wonderfully rushed between them, not slow and tedious like so many other aspects of her life. Their lovemaking was their own—nothing could ever match it, nothing made her feel as whole. Without Jaime beside her, she was half of herself. When he was inside her, murmuring promises of love and devotion to her she was complete. When he was with her, with their children, she could pretend _he_ was her husband, and Robert was married to someone else. She was happy. Nothing could ever be sweeter than when she and Jaime were together.

But it had shattered into nothing, like crystal against stone, the moment she saw that boy's small form darkening the window.

Of all the people that could have caught them, it had to be a child. And Jaime had reacted too quickly for her to stop him, shoving the boy and letting him fall to the cold hard ground, his body breaking upon impact with the most awful _thud_ she'd ever had the misfortune of hearing. She had always thought, always been _sure_ , that if anyone had ever caught them, she would have Jaime kill them—for their love, their children—but the fact he was a child gave her pause. Cersei wished Jaime had stopped to _think_ about what they _could_ have done. She could have scared him, she could have threatened him; he was young enough, she could have twisted his thoughts into thinking he'd seen something else.

But Jaime had _pushed_ him, (tried and _failed_ to kill him), and she could do nothing but straighten herself and hurry away with Jaime back to the castle before someone found the boy. Somehow, when the bells began to toll and horrified castle servants rushed back and forth in an attempt to be useful, she'd heard in passing that the boy _still_ lived—broken and in a deep sleep, but the heart still beat inside him.

The queen pushed up from her chair, her long golden hair falling over her shoulder, her robe and night dress trailing along the rushes as she stepped forward. A cold chill passed over her as she walked; the warmth of the hearth and her warm cotton and fur lined robe make little difference in the frozen chamber.

The plain wood doors seemed to be as ice when she touched them, pushing gently to peek into the room just on the other side. The soft creak was lost on the two slumbering figures within, the soft, flickering light of the candles in the bedchamber shared by her two youngest children, casting lazy shadows on their soft, round faces.

The two large feather beds were placed side by side, a little table with half a dozen candles burning low, sat between, tallow dripping down rivers of hardened wax. Her girl, Myrcella slept on her side, a mess of golden curls peeking out beneath her layers of rabbit fur and cotton. On the opposite side was Tommen, her sweet little prince, laid up on his back, his arms pulled securely to his chest. He still slept in the exact same way he slept as a babe in his cradle, her baby boy. They slept so peacefully, unaware of their mother's troubled thoughts and she was glad for it. She never wanted her children to suffer through worries which would age them before their time.

_Her_ children— _her_ beautiful cubs, and _her_ dear little doe, were in danger, horrible, cold, _merciless_ danger. If that boy lived, all four of them would fall under the wrath of the man they knew as their father. She knew Jaime would kill him before the drunken pig had a moment to reach for her children, but killing Robert would mean others, more cunning and vicious than her husband, would try to sheath their claws in her eldest son. Fools often attempt to manipulate a young and inexperienced ruler, but when Joff was king, he would show them how wrong they to think a lion could be twisted.

But on the off chance the boy lived, her family would suffer beneath the sword, beneath humiliation and scourge and would fall into the pages of history, humiliated and remembered as disgraced, dishonoured traitors. She would _die_ before she allowed that to happen. Joffrey would be and _should_ be king. _Her_ son, not Robert's or anyone else's.

Since his birth, since that fair haired little emerald eyed babe stared up at her the first time, Cersei had dreamed of the king her son would make: beautiful and golden like her and Jaime, none of Robert's foolishness in him. He would be powerful and strong, wise and beautiful, a _true_ lion for the realm to be proud. For the world to envy. He would be king, his legacy would last a thousand years, and _no one_ would ever take that away; she would not let them. Steffon had been taken from her as some cruel jape, and her hopes had died when he did, only to be born again with a thousand times more fervour with the birth of her and Jaime's first son. Steffon would never be king, but Joffrey _would_.

The boy would _die_ , she was sure of it. He had fallen far enough that _if_ he survived and spoke of what he saw, people would say his wits had scatted when he hit ground, and _no one_ would believe him. No one would _dare_ speak such slander openly when the one starting it was so fickle. But his body had _broken_ upon impact, his legs mangled beyond saving and he had not woken since the fall. The maester said it would be a miracle if ever he _did_ wake and although Lady Stark had wailed in grief for hearing this, Cersei looked away from the woman, breathing a quiet sigh of relief.

He would die on his own and that would be the end of it. She would have nothing to fear but the restless nights, images of that boy's frightened face just before he disappeared from the window haunting her dreams.

* * *

_Hours earlier..._

To be natural, she and her sweet twin had gone to see what the matter was outside the maester's chambers, where Sylvia and a bereaved Lady Stark waited, clinging to one another tightly as they sat on a little bench against the cold wall. It was horrible to hear the woman's hopeless wracking sobs, to watch as she clung to her own daughter as if she were the only thing holding her to the floor.

Cersei remembered when she had been in the woman's place, when her sweet little boy had left her all those years ago. She looked away from the two.

As queen, Cersei was expected to remain by the grieving lady's side, to offer her condolences and prayers, to express sympathy and inspire courage in her—but all the gods know that there is no courage to be had from a heartbroken mother. These useless courtesies amounted to nothing, worth as much as the contents in every chamber pot in this cold hovel. Sometimes she dearly wished she were a man, when pretty words were not expected of a rough and battle hardened king, as it was of a good and gracious queen.

Soft words and gentle pats were all that Cersei saw appropriate to give. The woman was clinging to her daughter anyhow, there was not much else the queen could offer but her silent presence.

For a time, the elder Lady Stark did not allow Sylvia to fetch her other children, as she did not want them underfoot, to watch the horrors as they unfolded. It was only when a guardsman arrived and informed them that the hunting party rode close that Sylvia _ordered_ him to fetch Lady Stark's younger children, murmuring gently to the weeping woman when she protested.

When had _this_ happened? When had her daughter fashioned herself into this woman who commanded rather than obeyed whatever order she was given? The child she'd known was too sweet and timid for such things. She did not have the regal pride or cunning to be a true ruler, not like Joffrey, but this was quite a feat for the child who once talked to pretend playmates. Before Robert sold her like a worthless commodity, Sylvia had been as gentle as a baby doe.

She had not seen this change, she had not inspired it. The girl before her now was a stranger, someone who had grown and thrived without her mother, only to be twisted and turned into a creature of the Starks. She wished, once more, that Sylvia had stayed in the Capitol, under her watchful eye, but it had been safer for them that she had gone away, out of sight of the people who would stir up foul gossip. Her children were safest when they were separated from her eldest.

Shortly after, the men rode through the main gates, and soon enough, a clatter of foot beats stampeded down the corridors. Lord Stark was the first to round the corner, his face unmasked of composure and bare to the worry and fear clawing up from his belly. The next to come was his eldest son, in much the same state as his father, only wilder and quicker in his distress. He was a boy yet, quick to act, quick to anger. Foolish and brash and young.

In a flurry of swishing cotton skirts, Lady Stark pulled herself from Sylvia's arms and thrust herself into her husband's, sobbing and sniffling through words what seemed to have happened to their son. With her arms free, Sylvia stood and moved to her husband, tears starting to gather in her eyes at the sight of him, her hands shaking as she reached out for him. In three long strides, the Stark boy met her, wrapping her up in his arms, so tightly around her she knew Sylvia would have bruises come morning. But she didn't seem to mind much, her hands clenching at his cloak clothed back, her face buried in his shoulder to hide her tears.

Cersei watched them a moment, only to be taken from her scrutiny by a red faced and sweat soiled Robert as he turned the corner, his breath puffing small nearly invisible clouds of smoke. She looked away from her shameful king, returning her eyes to the white knuckled grip Robb Stark had on her child's waist.

Wolves of the north are rarely gentle, she knew. Not even Lord Stark, who was unyielding in his honour, was gentle. He'd killed dozens in the war, as Robert often raved about when he was drunk. Cersei had never really thought much of whether or not her daughter's husband was gentle past their first night, but now, looking at him—clinging to Sylvia, clutching at her waist, pressing her hard against him—she wondered _just how much_ of a wolf this _pup_ had growing into. Robert had cursed her gentle little doe to a life with a rough, bruiting beast, surely. 

His big rough paws moved to her little doe's arms when he pulled away, asking what had happened.

"I-I don't know, sweetling. They s-said he fell from the Broken Tower; he survived, but they said...hi-his _legs,_ Robb!" her daughter stuttered in a way which nearly shamed her. She was a princess, despite her marriage to the lordling. Princesses had courage, bravery, and a quiet sort of dignity which was admired by even the filthiest of fleas. The queen knew she couldn't begrudge her child for a fearful stutter or for the stray tears falling from her eyes, but a prickle of disappointment tugged at her at seeing those watery traitors wetting Sylvia's rosy cheeks. _Tears are a weakness_ , she thought, _one she shows too easily to these people_.

_Or_ , she thought as Robb Stark pulled her to his chest again, _or perhaps his grip is truly painful_.

Cersei wanted to hold her daughter to her like she once did when the girl was a small child, to shield her from this ugliness she had no part in. But it wasn't her place anymore, not really. Her daughter was a woman grown with a little girl of her own.

"What in the seven hells happened!?" Robert finally roared, making his presence known.

"The boy fell from a tower." His queen replied steadily. "He was climbing and his hand must have slipped. Strong little thing he is, he survived." She managed with a small note of feigned hope in her voice. Well she did hope—she hoped the child died quickly and painlessly.

When the other Stark children arrived in the crowded chamber, Robert ordered Jaime away, and her sweet golden twin could do naught but obey the fat drunkard he'd sworn to protect. She longed to go with her brother, to find comfort in his arms and let him kiss her worries away. But when had she ever been allowed to do what she pleased?

She watched quietly as Sansa, Arya the wild little beast, and the youngest boy, whose name escaped her, went to their parents, listening with wide eyed, rapt attention when the lord and lady explained the situation to them. Sansa began to cry, her large blue eyes reddening with tears, and Arya appeared too stunned to manage anything but jerky nod in understanding. The littlest Stark boy was clearly too small to understand, but his mother's tears upset him, and so he buried his little face into her auburn hair, clinging to the long tresses and tangling them into a muddled bird's nest.

The queen clenched her jaw, her mouth pressing into a stern frown. It was bloody _maddening_ , there in that corridor with the Starks, these strangers, these people who'd turned her daughter against her, hearing them whimper and sniff and wail in grief and fear. Pity was not a feeling a queen should have. Pity makes you weak; it allows you to spare the enemy long enough for them to get their footing back just so they could strike you down in the end. Pity was a flaw of the loosing side.

Watching Sylvia comfort the eldest Stark girl, the naive little child who would be Joffrey's queen, made her want to scream.

A daughter for a daughter, she had thought upon arrival at Winterfell. Sansa for Sylvia. As Joffrey's doting little queen, Sansa would be loyal to the crown, to Joffrey and the children she would birth him. Above all, she would be a means to hold the north, to keep the Starks compliant and hold their wolves in their cages. But at once, Sylvia was a means for the Starks to keep her the same way – in a cage, snarling and clawing at the bars, but unable to do much else.

_If_ that boy lived, and spoke of what he'd seen...would these people hurt her daughter as recompense? Would her daughter's husband abuse her, if he ever found out? With a vicious, unforgiving flash, she imagined her daughter with bruises on her pale skin, gashes leaking blood and tears in her eyes as she sobbed and wept for mercy. Beside her hurt and bleeding child was her own daughter, Minisa, screaming and wailing in terror. Would they hurt the little girl her daughter had birthed? Her green eyes flicked to the boy in question, a momentary flash of something dangerous in her eyes. If he ever did, she would kill him herself. She would kill them all.

Robb Stark stood a bit off to the side, watching his wife intently as she held to his sister, his eyes straying to his mother and father for a moment or two before turning back to her. A black haired lad of age with him stood by his side, looking just as stricken as he. He must be the bastard boy Lady Stark had tried so hard to hide. He looked more like Lord Stark than any of her sons did, long sullen face and dark hair. What a docile little fish, Lady Stark was, to allow a bastard of her husband's dishonour remain in her home, to know her own children as siblings.

She observed the two, watched them speak with hushed whispers, before the bastard's attention was drawn to the youngest stark girl tugging at his arm. When his attention was on her, she flung her arms around him and sniffled, drawing him away.

Her steps were quiet and measured as the queen moved to her son in law's side, words turning over in her head. "I am sorry about your brother. I hear he loved to climb. How horrible it is that what he loved was ultimately what hurt him most." Robb looked at her, and then back to Sylvia, who tried to hush Sansa. If it were not for the horrible situation and the fear clawing up in his belly like a vicious animal, he would have wondered why the queen was speaking with him, when she had shown no interest to do so before.

_My brother_ never _falls_ , he thought. Instead he said, "I am wholly thankful that you remained with my mother and Sylvia during this time, Your Grace."

"As her mother, it is only necessary." She replied easily, shifting her hands in front of her.

"Still, I thank you."

The queen's eyes narrowed. "Do you think I would leave her?"

"No." He saw Sylvia kiss Sansa's forehead, and vaguely he heard his father whisper assurances to his mother. _"Luwin is the best maester for hundreds of leagues,"_ he said. _"There is no one else who could save Bran. Be strong, Cat. Be brave."_ Robb looked down to the floor, repeating his father's assurance over and over again, like a mantra.

Seeming satisfied, the queen continued, her voice quiet and solemn. "A mother's worry knows no bounds. I worried for Sylvia when she was right under my nose in King's Landing and I worry for her here, when she's safe with her husband and his family." She added easily. The best lies always have a trace of truth. She did and would _always_ worry over Sylvia, especially since she feared that one day her husband would turn on her.

"Sylvia is the same." Robb replied. "She frets over Mini all hours of the day, even when she's in the same room." Robb did not mention Grey Wind. He knew the southern queen would never understand the way he felt when looking into Grey Wind's eyes, the trust and understanding which flowed between them was like nothing he'd ever known. Grey Wind was part of him, made of the same substance, saw through the same eyes. Mentioning the wolf would only serve to horrify her, and he did not trust that she would let the wolf be if she knew the Mini rolled around with him and played with him, as though Grey Wind were another child or she were a wolf pup.

"I will fret over Sylvia every day of my life until I draw my last breath. I will fret over Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen in the same way. There is nothing a mother wouldn't do for her children." he wondered about that as he looked to his own poor mother, who could do _nothing_ for her son but weep against his father's chest, as Sansa sniffled softly against his wife. It felt as though a knife were twisting inside him. His little brother was hurt, suffering and broken and he couldn't stop it. Brandon...he never wanted to imagine a life where Bran was not, he was just a little boy. Robb refused to abandon the hope that he would survive, even as they awaited word from Maester Luwin.

But his mother only knew that Bran was hurt, and that the possibility he would live was dwindled to only hope and prayer. And his wife, the woman who tried never to cry in front of others, quietly wept against his sister. The knife twisted deeper.

"There is nothing I wouldn't do for my family. _Nothing_ I wouldn't do for Sylvia, or Mini. But I fear there is _nothing_ I can do for them that will soothe the pain." Cersei eyed him for a moment, her jewelled green eyes hiding so well the uncertainty she felt for the boy before her.

"There isn't. But I pray you will find the right words to say to her. A woman in agony cannot know her husband is in the same pain. If she does, what hope can she have of comfort?"

Robb's eyes narrowed, and he curiously looked to her, wanting to ask what in the name of the gods, she meant by that. But politely, she excused herself, the picture of a beautiful, charming queen, walking forward to stand by her husband who spoke kindly to his father.

* * *

_Creak!_ Cersei flinched as one of her children shifted in their beds, her mind once more shifting to the boy that was causing her real dismay. She shut the door quickly.

_He's going to die, painless,_ she thought as she poured herself a cup of wine _, as though asleep_. It was kinder; better to die than linger in agony. The fact that he would not live to breathe a word of what he'd seen, and put herself and her family in danger, was an advantage amidst an unpleasant situation.

Her daughter's eyes had shined red with tears, her cheeks already wet, her hands clenched tight as she held to Lady Stark and then Sansa. She hadn't known she cared for the boy so much. _I'm doing this for her_ , the queen thought, _for all of us. Because I love them. My children, my sweet twin._

Sometimes she dreamed of being with Jaime as husband and wife, as king and queen. She dreamed that Sylvia was his, born with golden curls and green eyes, she dreamed that they were happy—no Starks, no Baratheons. Just her and Jaime, and their children. Such a sweet dream that came far too little, but it never was, and never could be. Sylvia was Robert's, Jaime despised her mere existence, Robert was her husband and they were _not_ Targaryens. Cersei's heart tightened.

Sylvia mustn't know; none of her children must ever know. They must never know about their mother and uncle, they would never understand. She thought of Sylvia, one half of her first child, the only one of her children that was Robert's. Although distant, Sylvia was still her daughter, she always would be, and she could not bear the thought of how her little doe would look at her if she ever knew the truth of her and her sibling's birth. Her children...she had to protect them, as she always had, even thought it meant keeping them from knowing their real father.

Now she paced—her mind as restless as her legs. _The boy would die_. He would die, and the truth would die with him. Just like Jon Arryn had. She found not an ounce of joy or pride in the thought, because while Jon Arryn was a scheming old fool who'd lost the game he'd been trying to play, the Stark boy was a child who probably didn't even understand what he'd seen.

_Pity is a weakness_ , she reminded herself. Her lord father had shown no pity to the Reyne's when they sought to rebel, and now every man, woman and child in the realm hesitated to meet the lion's eye. She would never show hesitation when it came to her children. As it fell, it was either her children, or that boy.

Cersei was a lioness, fierce and proud. She would kill for her children if needs be. The lioness regretted this happened, down to her feet and up to the roots of her hair; he was just a boy after all. But if it would ensure the _absolute_ safety of her own children, she would do nothing to stop the Stark boy from succumbing.

The queen slept restlessly that night, her dreams awash with images of hateful ocean blue eyes, a black haired little boy who had left her long ago and the frightened face of Bran Stark.

* * *

"He is alive. He sleeps, soundly and deeply. I know not if he shall wake, but if he should, he will never be whole again. The fall has broken him." Maester Luwin had said with a gentle and solemn voice. But it was no good. Lady Catelyn wept, the soft lull of his voice having not affect.

Sylvia's shoes clicked against the stone, in time with Robb's leather boots, although they were separated by several feet. It seemed to be the only sound in the entire keep. Her face felt hot, her eyes itched and her hair felt a mess from Sansa and Lady Catelyn's hands. She wanted to wash her face; she wanted a scalding hot bath to scrub this horrid day off of her. She wanted to lie down and sleep, she wanted her daughter blinking up at her with those innocent blue eyes, she wanted Grey Wind trailing after her as she walked...she wanted the comfort of familiarity. But she wanted Robb most of all, she wanted him to hold her, to stroke her hair, press her close to him. She needed her husband, but she wondered if he needed her.

Of course he was upset; he'd be a cold bastard if he wasn't. But she didn't know if it was her—his southern wife, the _Baratheon_ girl—he needed. Did he think this? Did he need someone else's embrace why he moved so quickly ahead of her?

As they made their way down through the halls to their chambers, Robb's legs moved furiously several paces in front of her, swift and silent as a wolf stalking its prey. Unease prickled her skin, crackling like embers in the hearth. When Maester Luwin dismissed them all to bed (apart from Lord and Lady Stark who were permitted to stay with Bran), Robb had pulled his hand from hers and marched away. She'd tried to touch his arm, but he slipped it away as though she'd merely missed, but it hurt her.

Before the maester slipped out of his laboratory where Bran was being treated, her husband's shock kept his arms tight around her, his breath hot on her neck as his buried his nose into it to take in her scent, her own face pressed into his shoulder to hide her tears. But _after_ Maester Luwin emerged from his chamber, and explained to them the facts, she'd gone to Robb's side, but he'd been so distant.

She didn't understand. He'd seemed to need her close at the start and then suddenly it was as if he abhorred having her near. Had she said something wrong? Had he been offended by her in some way? She felt stupid for thinking this. Robb's little brother was near death, why shouldn't he be distant? Yet, as his wife, shouldn't she be by his side during these awful times? To give him comfort so he may not find it elsewhere.

She wanted to kiss him, to hold him, to be the wife he needed, so why would he not let her?

The princess struggled to keep pace with her husband, and she asked him to slow down, but he only continued to glare ahead into the darkness. Her knuckles whitened around her shawl as they moved. Her confusion only grew with each step, her Baratheon anger coming to surface, but only dully. She hadn't a right to be angry when something so horrible just happened.

The familiar corridor to their chambers was lit with fewer torches than usual, alerting her to the fact that Elane was probably still in the private solar where she'd ordered her. If Elane had come back during the time she was with the Starks, than the guard escorting her would have lit the torches along the way. The girl with her father's onyx locks was thankful for that. Whatever would happen between her and her husband in that chamber, she did not want Elane to be present.

Still, her breasts ached with the telltale tenderness that Mini needed to eat.

When they turned the final corner before their chambers, Sylvia breathed a small sigh of relief when she spied Ser Fredrik waiting outside the door. Her sworn shield had acquired more grey around his temples in the last short years, the lines around his blue eyes and forehead becoming more prominent as time wore along. Still, he was the same man she had always known—funny and dutiful and protective, and she was forever grateful to her mother for allowing him to come north with her.

She was sure, if Ser Fredrik had not come with her, she would have gone mad from boredom those first few months here in Winterfell.

Her fond thoughts abruptly died as her husband unlatched the locks without care, and opened the door swiftly, narrowly stopping it before it could clang against the wall as though it were an afterthought. She saw Ser Fredrik's eyes narrow warily and he tightened his hand around the pommel of his sword. Sylvia walked further, the scrape of her shoes on the stones beneath her seeming to grate in her ears. She reached her beloved sworn shield cautiously and stopped before him.

"Fetch Elane for me, will you Fredrik? I do not wish to leave Robb." She asked. Fredrik was hers to command, he always had been, but he was her friend. She could not order him about as though he were a simple faceless maid.

The elder man's eyes narrowed questioningly. "Are you sure, little lady? I can stay." Since he'd been charged with her safety by the queen herself, Ser Fredrik Ravenback had done his duty meticulously, tirelessly, and without fail and he prided himself on that. Most knights prided themselves on who they killed, but Ser Fredrik's lasting mark would be the longevity of this girl before him. Childhood bumps and cuts did not count as failure. He would not let her come under harm from the hands of her husband, no matter how much she loved him. He would _not_ allow her to suffer as her mother had with a miserable wretch.

"No. It's alright. Go." she gave her shield a reassuring smile, and saw him away, his steps hesitant and slow. _Robb would never hurt me_ , she thought. _He'd sooner put a knife through his hand than lay it on me._

When he was gone from sight, the princess turned back to the opening, walking through it without pause and shutting the door soundly behind her. She watched her wolf quietly as he crouched down by the fire, poking it and feeding it to bring it to a wonderful warm blaze once more. The candles still burned, dripping their melted wax down the shelves and cupboards, casting gentle shadows on the walls and over the furniture. It all seemed so mundane, and yet it was not, and it pained her to know it may never be as it was before.

The girl removed her woolen shawl, her long black tresses thumping soundlessly against her back as she set it aside on the chest at the foot of the bed and she searched for something to say. _He's not going to die,_ she practiced. _If he was meant to die, the gods would have taken him already_. She made a face. Gods, that was horrible. Her eyes lingered on her husband's back, watching as he breathed, his hands clenched at his sides.

"Darling?" she asked. He grunted in reply. "He will not die, I know it." She offered softly. Robb was silent. Her agitation rose and she began to twist her silver wedding band about her finger, the sapphire set there digging into her finger tips. "Maester Luwin said there is hope, please don't be afraid." His head turned, but did not move around to look at her. "Please _, please_ talk to me. Tell me what it is you need of me to feel better."

He kept quiet a moment, thinking, staring into the flames and for a moment, Sylvia thought he might tell her what he needed, what he felt, what he thought. Let her _in_ somehow. That hope fell away once he spoke. "Sleep Sylvia. There is nothing to talk about. My brother may," he took in a breath, long and tortured. "He may die. Discussing what has happened will not heal him."

She flinched. He was right, but it still did not deter her from what she knew needed to be done. He could not shut her out like this, she would not let him. "No, but it would help sooth you. And me." She added quietly. It would be easier to do as he bid, but it did not feel right. "We-we don't have to talk about it. Being held is just as good."

It was only in the way his shoulders stiffened that she knew he'd hardened into Lord Robb, stern and firm and unbending. His voice seemed cruel to her as he spoke, although a part of her assured her that he was only being firm and honest about it. "Will talking turn time back and keep him from falling from that tower?"

"No, but talking will ease the burden of heavy thoughts." She countered.

"There is no need. Go to sleep." He commanded.

"I am _not_ going to be ordered about like a petulant child." She said with the smallest edge to her soft, tear thickened voice. "He's _alive_. Bran survived. Don't forget that."

He was quiet, but she was not comforted by the silence. It only served to drone on and on, endless and horrible. Robb had still not looked at her, so she looked away from his back, and to the little linen chest that housed Mini's few clothes.

Her insides had frozen like ice, desperate for warmth, and lost and staggering aimlessly to get it. She didn't know what to do. She didn't know what else to say, and didn't want to upset him any more. She longed to hold him, and to be held. But his little brother had suffered a horrible accident after all. Pushing her sweet husband to his breaking point would do nothing but ignite further strife, wouldn't it?

_Oh poor little Bran_ , she thought again. She could not forget poor Lady Catelyn's face. She'd never seen the woman cry—not _once_ in the past six years had a tear shed from the blue eyes that matched Robb's. It tore at her to have had to hush her mother-in-law like _she_ had hushed her when the birthing pains had come too early. She loved Lady Catelyn, and it was a vile thing to know she could do _nothing_ to stop the horror surrounding them.

_He's alive_ , she remembered. Bran would survive, he just had to. He _had_ to, that little boy couldn't...

She sniffed, but she did not see Robb's head incline in her direction.

Her feet moved without her consent, sliding forward through the rushes with a soft sigh. Her steps were slow and careful, and then suddenly Robb's back was before her, straight and hard as stone, hidden beneath his heavy black cloak, his face hidden behind the grey wolf fur lining the collar.

The top of his auburn curls were visible, however, strands glowing red and orange in the firelight. When Mini had almost come into the world two moons early, _Robb_ had been the strong one; Robb had been the one to suffer through her tantrums and harsh words and cold touches. Even when she was half mad with fear and anger and guilt, he had never truly abandoned her. He'd waited outside the door when her guilt had consumed her and converted to burning spite at anyone at her side. He'd _stayed_ by her, assuring her, _promising_ her it would be alright.

He'd done it selflessly, willingly...because she'd needed him to, because he loved her. Because they—her and Mini both—had needed him to, although she knew now, he'd been just as bad off as she.

He was vulnerable _now_ , fear and confusion haunting his mind. She knew Robb's hurt and fear must be three times as awful because, although she loved Bran, Robb and the child shared the bond of kinship that could not be duplicated. So she closed her eyes and leapt, offering herself and hoping he would take what she gave.

"I am here, Robb. I need you, and if you need me, that's alright. You're my husband, there's nothing improper about it." She dare not touch him, afraid that, like a wounded animal, he would whirl around and snap his jaws at her. She wanted to say more, but was silent for the same reason—afraid as to weather he'd push her away with harsh words or simply ignore her and make her feel small.

With a fleeting look up at his half hidden face, she turned to move away, almost meekly admitting defeat against her unmovable, stubborn husband, intending to let him alone with his thoughts as he so seemed to wish, when the cold leather of his gloved hand enclosed around her wrist.

For a moment, she was afraid. The memories of the horrible sounds which came from her mother's chambers when father visited her were not easy to banish from memory, nor were the memories of the bruises which would mark her for days after. But the fear faded when she looked up into his face, his eyes heavy with a sadness, a _fear_ she'd never seen on him before, his mouth pressed into a stern line, his brows drawn down that made him look daunting, a wolf ready to pounce on a helpless rabbit...but she knew him well enough to see the subtle expression of fear and pain written between every fine line and curve of his face.

"Robb?" she asked, almost fearful of what may happen.

She had little warning before he was on her, his arms clenched tightly around her middle, their chests pressed hard against each other, her heart aching as he held her. Wasn't this what she'd desired? To be held by her husband? She had not thought that victory would feel so much like defeat.

"My brother may _die_." He said plainly, his voice raspy in her ear. A punch of pain struck her chest, bringing tears to her eyes. She tried to blink them away. "Is that what you'd like to hear? The cold, awful truth?"

"I..." he pulled away a little then, his hands coming to grip her shoulders, his blue eyes pinning her in place. She found quickly, that she could not speak, not with those eyes digging into her.

"He _never falls_." He breathed furiously, his anger and hurt coming through into his voice, his brows narrowing as he spoke, tears gleaming inside those river blue eyes. Unseeing, even as they stared at her. "Never. He's climbed every wall in this keep a thousand times; he knew to _climb_ before he could _walk_." He continued, his voice rising above that guttural murmur to a grief filled growl. Every word he spoke tightened his hands about her shoulders. "How could he...?" he drew in a sharp breath and broke off, his eyes darting elsewhere.

Suddenly her voice returned, the only facts she _knew_ slipping from her lips. "He did. He fell but he's—"

He turned his head to look at her, his eyes burning desperate with something she didn't recognize. "He's a _climber_ , he has never fallen before. It isn't _possible_..." he huffed in agony, his eyes traveling to the floor as though embarrassed. How could he not believe what was true? Bran had fallen, just as his lady mother had always feared.

The ice within her grew colder as the thought of Bran. She needed her daughter, she needed Mini. She needed _Robb_ to melt the cold away, and if he allowed her, she could do the same for him. That was what lady's do for their lords.

Robb turned his head away, staring intently at the little vanity his wife possessed, littered with perfumes, brushes, and jewels, as well as toys and wayward dresses for Mini that had somehow made their way atop it.

He turned his eyes away and that was the last of it. She could not stand it another moment! She refused to. She _needed_ him, and _damn it_ , if he didn't need her too! When she opened her eyes that morning, all had been right in the world, and now it had distorted into this ugly, horrible unimaginable terribleness. This felt like too much.

Roughly, she slapped his hands away from her shoulders, pain flaring to life as his hands were knocked aside. She would have bruises come the morning, purple hands on her shoulders that would not fade for days and would cause her lady maids to whisper. She simply did not care. His eyes to snapped up at her, seeming lost, as though he had just been somewhere else, and just for a second she saw them flash with confusion, his anger coming to surface before she flung herself at him, locking her arms tight around him, refusing to let go.

She grabbed at him as he had just moments before, but it was an entirely separate experience. Her arms were filled with tenderness, a desperate need to console and be consoled, fragile and gentle and hard and firm, all wrapped up in the tight constriction of her arms about his body. Robb was still, unsure what to feel and how to react to such a sudden embrace.

" _Oh, gods,"_ he heard her whimper, her face hidden against his chest. "Robb, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." What had she to be sorry about? She hadn't done anything wrong, hadn't caused Bran's fall. "Don't. _Leave. Me_." He frowned confusedly, but in a way he understood; he knew she felt his attempts to distance himself from it all, and he knew that by doing this, he put space between he and Sylvia. Robb felt his eyes burn and clenched them shut. Men don't cry, least of all in front of their lady. It would disgust her to see him like that. 

The auburn haired lordling looked down, her words slipping like a needle into his skin and lodging it deep. Without thinking, one of his arms came up to lazily drape over her hip. She pressed herself closer, one hand slowly retracting from around his back, to grip the warm fur of his cloak near her face.

He spied their bed, large and warm and soft, and imagined the countless times they had slept in it. He recalled with perfect clarity how they'd tangled about each other in pleasure filled warmth, speaking in hushed voices as they slowly drifted off. Or limp and exhausted as household and parenting pressures demanded every ounce of energy of them, falling into peaceful oblivion for a few hours. He had always slept more peacefully when she slept next to him, and now he knew not how he'd gone without it for sixteen years. He longed for that now and pressed his face into her pretty hair.

"Forgive me, Syl." He murmured into her tangled onyx locks, his voice breaking even though he had tried to repress it. "Please forgive me."

She did not seem to hear, and her voice was muffled against his chest. "I am your wife. I am yours, _always._ I promised you that, I promised the _gods_ that." She murmured. "You did too. Remember?" she pulled away then, loosening her grip on his cloak and furs ever so slightly so she could look up at him. Her eyes were sad and reddened by her tears, tired and firm, determined in the way only a woman can be. Something sweet and biting rolled against his heart.

The corners of his eyes burned as he stared at her a long moment. His little brother lay near death, and as he and his family lingered on in the aftermath—stunned, hurt, scared and angry at whatever horrible, evil had caused this—he pushed the woman before him away, out of pride, out of anger, out of _fear_. Fear of ultimately hurting her with his tears and weakness, for being a weak boy, rather than a man. But he was only human. He wanted so _badly_ to just...to _just_...

"I remember," he murmured back to her. He remembered every detail of that day in the godswood. He always would. His other hand came up to clutch the bend of her arm, gently this time, and the arm around her waist tightened just so. It felt good to press her against him, _so bloody good_. There was the smallest twitch at one corner of her mouth, pleading and hopeful.

"Share yourself with me. _Please_. I beg you. You need not speak, if it hurts. Just...let me be by your side." It seemed a pathetically simple thing to say, given how deep the meaning ran, but it was all that seemed to fit. Her sweet husband did not speak when he pulled her closer, burying his face into her hair and winding his arms around her, just as her own arms pressed him close.

A sob that had been long building finally escaped, muffled by his chest. She could feel his own tears fall into her hair, and against her neck.

It was only when Elane came knocking with Mini in hand that they parted.

* * *

Hours later, when the moon hung in the sky, the stars burning their gentle candle light down onto the sleeping world, the direwolf pups ran through the godswood, five of them. Only five. One was missing, and the loss was felt sharply. As they ran, they sniffed and searched for their nameless brother, only to come up empty.

It was not much longer that their voices rose up in a mournful howl, searching for the voice of their brother's reply. But he was silent, shut up inside that big looming castle, deaf to their cries. Still, their voices continued into the night, loud and sad, a prayer almost to the gods to return their brother to them.


	14. Until We Meet Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there is really no good reason for this to have taken as long as it did. For that I am ashamed.

**Chapter 11 : Until We Meet Again**

Time was never kind; Sylvia learned this early in her youth but only remembered when time seemed to betray her once more. Either a moment was sweet and seemed to pass as quickly and fleetingly as the dying light of day, or moments were horrid, and seemed to drag on like the long winters of time past. Only regular, ordinary events seemed to pass on in natural time.

Time was not kind now, as Bran lay near death for nearly a month. Every day was slow, filled to the brim with the fearful expectation that Bran may die, and then, as day melted into night, that small ember of hope stayed burning, even as despair and fear whispered constantly the seed of doubt. He'd made it another day, but still no change.

Every morning the young girl and her lordling husband awoke and at once peeked outside their door to order the attending guard to see Maester Luwin and report back to them if there had been a change since they'd retired hours before. Always the answer was the same: _"He sleeps."_

The castle seemed dimmer somehow, colder. Sylvia walked through the halls she'd come to know, eyes as unseeing as a crone's. Her mind was much occupied these days. She thought of Bran mostly, about the circumstances of his fall, about the blind cruelty of whatever decided to allow him to fall from that godforsaken tower. Sometimes she didn't know what to feel, all these conflicting and confusing emotions she'd never felt before, and did not know what to do with. Sometimes she ended up weeping, other times she prayed to the Mother for guidance and strength. Most of the time, though, she tried to carry on as naturally as she could. 

She wished she knew what Robb was thinking. Even after she'd gotten him to accept her comfort the night Bran lay on death's doorstep, he still felt distant, even as he lay in her arms at night. Sylvia understood it was the stress of undertaking his father's responsibilities and worrying over his younger siblings why he felt so far away. They were both tired, and it would take time to become accustomed to the sudden pressure of leadership, but it didn't stop her from missing him.

As long as Bran breathed, there was hope, hope that he would one day wake. Not everyone had such hope, and some could be quite cruel when dissecting the reality of what happened.

Early one morning, about a week after the fall, she'd gone to her father's expansive chambers at his behest, leaving her little girl with Elane and the Stark sisters, and broke fast with her parents and siblings. It was lovely, truly, despite the tense silence and scarping of silverware on plates.

"Is Bran going to be alright?" Tommen asked her as he popped another blackberry into his mouth.

Sylvia swallowed a mouthful of water and answered, "Maester Luwin says it is too early to tell. But Bran is taking the honey and water mixture he's been feeding him, so he won't starve." She smiled at her little brother.

The king grunted in his chair, his wine cup resting just below his mouth. "Such a bloody shame. Poor Ned. That's no way for anyone to live. We put down our lame horses when they break their legs. This boy will probably have much worse than lame legs if he ever wakes. They should do the child the same courtesy."

Myrcella continued cutting into her meat happily, as if deaf to their father's awful words, as Tommen looked back down at his plate, a frown etched into his face. Joffrey looked at their father as she did, only his face was thoughtful, and appreciative, and she knew the little twat agreed with every hurtful word the king had just spoken. Sylvia felt her face colour as fury washed over her. Had it been anyone else, she would have stood, marched over and struck them across the face with all the strength she could manage. The feeling appalled her. She'd never wanted to strike out at her own father before, not even when he embarrassed her at her wedding. But she wanted to now, very badly.

How could her father say such things? Bran was a little boy, not a horse to be deemed too feeble to ride. He was a child. Would father have said the same were she the one who'd fallen? She wanted to ask him that, but bit her tongue. 

Cersei saw her eldest daughter's disbelief, and watched the fury grow in her eyes. Poor girl didn't understand that hope was lost on that boy. The boy would die, and her child would be left bitter and angry, and wounded by the loss. Sylvia had to learn fast the harsh reality of the world, to not to be caught unawares, to be hardened and without weakness. The queen had tried when she married the Stark boy, but the willful child had resisted.

"My dove," the queen called softly. Sylvia tore her eyes from her father and looked to her mother, a jolt of hope rising inside her at seeing her mother's gentle face. _Mother_ would agree with her, mother would tell father to stop saying those awful things. "My dove, it is not wise to place so much hope in such a delicate matter."

The eldest princess frowned, a huff of disbelief coming from her, and Cersei nearly flinched at the betrayal in those eyes of hers. How could they say these things? How could mother take father's side, in the _one_ thing she shouldn't? Bran was going to _live_ , he had to. Maester Luwin would not let him die!

"Yes, sister." Joffrey added, his tone of voice only adding kindling to her fury. "The boy could very well die _tonight_. His legs are mangled beyond repair, his wits probably knocked out of him when he hit the ground. Why deny the inevitable?"

"Bran's going to die?" Myrcella piped up, her eyes suddenly fearful. Sylvia knew Myrcella had developed a little fancy for Bran, often blushing when he talked to her and offering him her favour as a lady would do a knight. Most often, though, Bran hadn't known what to do with her favour, but kept it nonetheless.

"Yes," Joffrey replied nastily to the younger princess.

" _No he isn't!"_ cried Sylvia suddenly, dropping her hands harshly onto the table. Tommen flinched, eyeing her with wide frightened eyes, Myrcella stared in shock, and Joffrey glared, preparing to strike back. The eldest princess glared at her younger brother. "He's not a lame horse you daft fool!" She felt her fork in her hand, her fingers clenched around it tight. For a small second, she imagined stabbing it into his hand.

"How dare you talk to me like that, you worthless _broodmare!"_

"I _dare_ you awful little-!" Sylvia spat.

"Enough!" Robert bellowed out, his voice loud and commanding. The children dropped their eyes to their plates, scolded little timid things, while the queen eyed Robert boldly, daring him to do harm to the four. " _Seven hells!_ Can never have _one_ peaceful bloody meal with you lot." He sat back down again, and it was a long while before anyone touched their food again.

The morning meal was quiet after that, and Sylvia bustled from the room as soon as she could say she'd eaten something. She slammed the door behind her, and she'd be lying to say it didn't satisfy her. 

* * *

A month passed, eventless.

For a month, their prayers went unanswered and Bran remained asleep, never once making any sound or movement to show he would wake, never once shifting or murmuring the way other sleeping children do. He lingered in a state like death, and drove his poor mother mad. It was unnerving and heartbreaking at once to see him so, and yet, as his chest moved with each gentle intake of breath, a small kind of hope remained alight. _Breathe Bran_ , she would think. _Breathe and live and dream, and you'll wake. You can't sleep forever_.

In the aftermath of the fall, Lady Stark never _once_ left Bran's side—not for meals, not to bathe, not to mistress the castle, or to play hostess to the royal family. Not even for her other children could she stand to leave her broken son alone.

All those responsibilities then fell to Sylvia, a sudden heavy burden to carry which forced her to spend less and less time with her girl and husband. She and Robb were now lord and lady of Winterfell in all but name, and would be, _officially_ , when Lord Eddard left them for the south, taking his two daughters with him.

At first she'd been confused by that. Why take the girls south? She hadn't thought much of it, too occupied by trying to keep the castle in running order with over a hundred guests to take care of. But mother had let it slip one night when they sat alone in her chambers, exchanging words. The queen had called upon her eldest not long after the evening meal, and Sylvia was delighted as a little girl to find that it would be just the two of them in attendance, along with Mini who played happily on the floor with her dolls and blocks.

They talked about many things, and eventually, Sansa came up. It was small at first, an offhand comment about the auburn haired girl, but she came up more and more and eventually, Sylvia asked why her mother wanted to know so much about her.

"Well," the queen began simply. "She will be my sons wife one day, it is only natural I get to know about her." And that was that. Sansa would be Joffrey's queen. "So tell me. Will Sansa be obedient? Will she ever defy Joffrey?"

Sylvia's mind was reeling and she could do nothing but utter a strangled "Why? W-why make her Joffrey's queen?" in reply.

"To unite our families twice over, and to remind the north who their loyalty lies with. Your father insisted." Mother had said.

Once more, Sylvia said nothing, the strangest feeling rising inside her. Uniting the Crown with the north had been _her_ job; it was the _one_ thing she'd been tasked with as a princess. And now Joffrey had taken that small bit of honour and glory from her—him and father both. She felt cheated in the _stupidest_ way. This was something _joyous_ , something anyone would be happy for, but Sylvia found nothing agreeable with the match.

It disgusted her. Revolted her. Enraged and embarrassed her. She didn't want Joffrey associated with the north, didn't want him to tarnish the life she and Robb had built themselves, and knowing him, he _would_ if he found a way.

Was it because she'd given Robb a beautiful little girl rather than a strong healthy son? Did father think her marriage with Robb a mistake, and decided to _fix_ it by marrying Sansa to Joffrey? Did he think her useless? She'd done her duty. She'd bound her family to Robb's and happily too. Not Joffrey. Never Joffrey. Joffrey scoffed at the Starks at every turn, and had no respect for Bran. He would disgrace his Stark in-laws.

But history would say different. If Sansa had a son off Joffrey before Sylvia had one from Robb, she would be utterly humiliated.

She was ashamed of this, loathing herself for thinking such things. If Sansa married Joffrey and became queen someday, Sylvia should be happy for her. If Sansa gave birth to Joffrey's son, she should be happy. But she wasn't. And no matter how she thought of it, she could not shake the idea of such an embarrassment being forced upon her.

_Well_ , she thought spitefully, _no more embarrassing than being married to that boy_.

Then the truly disturbing knowledge came to mind that _Sansa_ was marrying _Joffrey_. Sweet, guileless, gentle Sansa would marry that cruel, big mouthed brute. It was _utterly_ mad. They were a mismatched pair, completely unalike—but they _looked_ like something out of a song, she could not deny. But Joffrey was no gallant prince; he'd proven that when he called her daughter a bastard, Sylvia a whore and Robb a womanizing dog the first night he'd been at Winterfell. Jon Snow, who the royals looked down on so scornfully, had more honour in one hand than the Crown Prince did in his whole body. But Sansa could not see it.

Joffrey kept the ugliness of his character hidden from Sansa, and so well too. She'd spied them once, talking, laughing and talking in the godswood, and for a moment, she wondered if he was only ever awful to his elder sister. If so, why? Why was he so horrible to her? That question had bothered her since childhood, and even now, she could not find the answer.

The frightening image of the kind auburn haired girl cowering in fear of her brother made Sylvia feel sick. _No_ , she resolved firmly. Lord Eddard would _never_ allow Sansa to live like that. He would take her back to Winterfell if Joffrey showed the slightest bit of cruelty towards her, and their father would knock his teeth in for offending his dearest friend.

Still, the betrothal gave her as much enjoyment as birth did.

Her mother delicately cleared her throat and jolted her daughter back to the little table, the queen waiting for an answer, Mini's ragdoll flopping between her chubby fingers.

"Sansa is everything a lady must be—loyal and courteous and pleasant. She will...she will thrive in the Capitol." The onyx haired girl replied finally.

She would miss the girls—they'd been her first friends in this place. They'd included her in their games, in their lessons, and made living there for the first few months a happier experience. She would miss Lord Eddard and the stable ground of wisdom and peace he'd always emitted.

* * *

Jon Snow was leaving too, on the same day the Royal caravan would depart. While the Starks rode south to live in the warmth of King's Landing, Jon would ride farther north when his uncle returned, all the way to the Wall. Sylvia could always remember Jon talking about the Night's Watch, he knew their histories better than any of them, and he'd always talked so highly of them and his uncle for being a part of it. For this, Sylvia was not very surprised to hear Jon finally resolve to leave home for the Watch.

Like the two sisters she called her friends, she would miss the bastard boy. Jon was her friend, Robb's brother, the one other man besides his father he trusted most. Mini adored him, and even though he was somewhat awkward around the babe, he was a good uncle. He'd always been kind to Sylvia as well, even when she hadn't deserved it. Just after she'd arrived there, she'd called him out for being a bastard, more than once. She hadn't seen the harm in it—it was what he was, as simple a fact as the fact that the birds flew up. Septa Bryda had said bastards are different from true-born children, harder and crueler. She hadn't thought it would bother him. It wasn't until much later that she saw how badly it hurt him when she called him that, even in such an offhand way. And even then, he'd never spat insults back at her in defence, as Bryda had said bastards did.

Now he was leaving, and although she was sad to see him go, she hoped he found what he was looking for at the Wall. She hoped he didn't regret his choice some time down the road he was headed.

As the departure drew nearer, Sylvia and Robb took on their new roles as Lord and Lady of Winterfell, with the stumbling feet of unprepared children trying to stay afloat.

The little Lady Stark was especially knocked back from the sudden onslaught of duties she was tasked with. Robb still had his father to look to for guidance, whilst Lady Catelyn refused to hear about the tasks she usually handled. So her good-daughter tried her best to handle it all on her own, with Maester Luwin and Vayon Poole the head steward there to advise her. The girl was somewhat tempted to go to her husband or good-father and seek the guidance Lady Catelyn could not offer, but her pride kept her to the old maester and steward.

Constantly she questioned herself— _is that too much money? Did I order enough? Winter is coming, is there enough in the stores? How many positions will need to be filled, again? Maybe I should ask Robb?_ —until she went over some problem countless times, and heard definitively from both Luwin and Poole.

Robb's duties called him away often, more often than before. When she woke in the morning, Robb was usually already gone or just finishing dressing. She would see him a few times during the day, but not for long—an hour at most. When he came back to her at night, she would already be in bed, sleepy but determined to wait up for him because that's what a good lady does.

When he returned to her, Mini would awaken, somehow sensing her father had come back, and obtain his attention with her angry little cries which only calmed when he picked her up from her cradle. He would hold her to his chest until she fell back asleep, exchanging soft, leisure words with his drowsy wife.

Mini felt it all—all the time she previously spent with her mother had declined by more than half, and she now spent her days with Elane or perhaps Septa Mordane if the younger servant was tired. When Sylvia returned back to her and Robb's chambers at the end of the day, her little one would whimper and cry, her pudgy little hands pushing her weary caretaker away. While Sylvia was happy to see her little one after what felt like an absurdly long day, she was often exhausted by the time she saw her. She was sad for this, guilty. By the day it was time for the Starks to leave Winterfell, Mini was mostly weaned from her mother's teat. 

It _hurt_ her, oddly enough, to leave her every day for so long. Before, it had been easier, when she was still just ' _little Lady Stark'_ and not mistress to the castle in all but name, still unsure of these new responsibilities, still frightened over Bran's health. Sometimes during the course of her day, she wondered how Lady Catelyn made it all seem so seamless. At first Sylvia thought it was just experience alone, but then realised that Lady Catelyn hadn't had her mind occupied on such fearful things, or impending departure of loved ones.

Sylvia shook her head, hoping to shake the miserable thoughts from mind.

Now that Lady Catelyn was largely absent about the castle and as Lord Eddard and his girls prepared, Sylvia found herself spending a good amount of time with Rickon.

It was Robb and their father he usually tried to stay with, but usually the little lad was sent away and found his way to _her_ solar where she was advised by the maester and steward on household matters. He stayed with her all day, sitting in on meetings, fidgeting by the fire, whining out of boredom, and would only go outside to play if she said he could unchain Shaggy Dog from the kennels. Those times she would forbid any entrance into the godswood, where they roamed, knowing how vicious Shaggy could be around strangers, but sent a few Stark guardsmen with the boy to watch over him.

Thankfully, when Lord Eddard was freed for the day, he would tend to the wild child, tuck him into bed and ease his worries, but both Robb and Sylvia dreaded the day when this would be no more. Lady Catelyn had to remember her other children needed her, Sylvia would think as Rickon wandered off, angry and confused. How would he react when his father, brother and sisters left? Would his mother be able to comfort him?

She couldn't understand how Lord Eddard could _leave_ them now of all times, when they needed him _most_. With Bran as he was and his lady wife bereaved and half mad, how in the name of every god in creation, could a man leave his family? There was a strong urge in her heart to name him selfish, but shame would wash through her at the mere thought. Lord Eddard was a good man, the most honourable man besides her husband, she'd ever met.

But that made it worse. A _good, honourable_ man wouldn't leave his family like this, with some measly explanation about duty. But Sylvia said nothing. It was not her place.

She hoped that once it all settled down—once all the preparation for the departure was through and Bran woke up—then things would be smoother.

"Did you see Bran today?" she asked her husband as he unlaced his breeches and pulled back the covers she happily snuggled under. He'd returned a few short moments before, his meeting with his father, Rodrik and the kennel master running too long, their opposing views taking much time to work out. The kennel master felt the dire wolves were growing too large to accommodate in the kennels, and he spoke rightly. Grey Wind was just starting to reach his hip, and soon enough, he and the other wolves would grow restless and volatile in such a little space. And hungry.

Rodrik still held firm that the wolves were better off dead, while the kennel master did not truly care if the pups lived or died. He only wanted them _out_ of his kennels. After much debate, it was finally concluded that the godswood would be their roaming ground once the royals left.

"Yes, for a few moments." He replied, glancing cautiously at the cradle. Mini had yet to awaken, and he thought to keep it that way. "He seems so much smaller." He recounted steadily. Since the fall, he'd been careful when talking about Bran, not wanting to remember how bloody horrible it had felt when he first learned of the fall. He'd wept against his beloved then, and no one knew how comforting that had been, to know she was there, through the worst, through the tears and anger and despair. It felt good to soak in the warmth she emitted, his winter sun, but he would not let himself fall into despair again. Not for fear of losing his masculinity—not so much—but more for fear of losing all hope for his little brother.

"He'll be so hungry when he wakes." She murmured absently.

"Mmm." He hummed back, setting his doublet over the chair by the fire. He looked back at her, her long black braid peeking out from the covers, her long fingers curled over the furs, holding them close. He smiled softly at her. She was so tired lately, her days suddenly twice as long, but she still waited up for him. He climbed into bed, and curled himself around her, her back to his chest, his arms wound loosely around her. He pressed a kiss to her shoulder just because he could.

The last thing Rob heard before the world went black was a sleepy voice murmuring, "Goodnight love."

In the next moment, she opened her eyes to Mini's whimpers and Elane's movements as she began her morning chores, the light outside the shudders just starting to stream through, the lingering wetness of a kiss on her forehead, the warmth of her husband's missing body under her outstretched hand.

The princess sighed and rolled out of bed.

* * *

A few mornings later, it was time for the royals to return to the Capitol. Their carriages and wagons were packed, as were the Starks', the horses fed and watered and by midday, Cersei would finally be free of this godforsaken place. Of course they would be bringing remnants of their stay here with them in the form of Eddard Stark and his household, but Cersei did not care. She wanted to be _far away_ from this cold waste.

But then, she would also be leaving her daughter. _Again_. She'd come and left her daughter once before, when the girl was wed, and had resolved that once was enough, once was all she could manage. Leaving Sylvia was like losing a part of herself, a small part but painful all the same. It was a merciless limbo the gods had thrust her in just over seventeen years ago—the ache of being without her eldest, but unable to escape the pain of having her close. She needed to protect her child; there was no instinct stronger than that, but she had to protect her other three.

Cersei had stayed up half the night, thinking about her eldest and the danger she was _in_ , and _posed_ to her siblings. The queen felt like she lost every way she thought of her little doe. Bringing her to King's Landing would raise questions, but it would keep Sylvia close and safe from harm. Leaving her in this desolate hole was dangerous. At any given moment, if war broke loose somehow, the wolves she laid with could rip her apart. But if it would help keep curious glances off her children, she would settle with it, hoping that by doing so, she was not putting the onyx haired girl at risk. Would that she could have all four with her, safe and sound. The queen had awoken with a sour taste in her mouth.

Not long after, the queen sat in the Great Hall with her lover and children. Although she was still cross with him for his brashness, she felt better when he was close. They were half of each other and half of themselves when they were apart. She felt half a woman when he was gone and out of site. Sometimes she wondered if the loss of her twin was why Sylvia had seemed so fanciful as a child, so...odd.

She had hoped for a last quiet, peaceful breakfast with Jaime and their children, since Sylvia had not had breakfast with them since that unpleasant day when Robert opened his fat mouth. Joff had gone to take Sansa on her last stroll through the grounds, and soon after, the misshapen form of her little brother waddled into the Great Hall, booming out demands and plunking his ugly self right across from her.

She gave a taught, unwelcoming smile. It was for Jaime's sake, she'd never had him killed in his sleep. _Only_ for Jaime. He did love the little whoremonger so, the thing that killed mother and shamed their father.

At once Myrcella posed her question to him— _would Bran die?_ She'd asked her mother often since that unpleasant breakfast, and earlier this morn as the queen brushed her golden curls. Cersei had gently replied it was possible and to not put too much hope in his survival. Apparently, this was not the answer Myrcella hoped for, and now asked her Uncle Imp.

"Apparently not." Nothing in her silent, indifferent expression gave way to the horror slowly blossoming inside her. Sylvia was a child, a green girl with little knowledge of the harsh reality of life. Tyrion was a foul little monster, used to cruelty, used to returning it. He knew the world far better than Sylvia, Cersei acknowledged, and for him to say such a thing stopped her short, and made her listen. The queen eyed her ugly little brother carefully, softly asking what he meant.

"The maester says the boy may live." Tyrion answered. Myrcella shared a bright smile with Tommen, who had found a playmate in Bran Stark until his accident. Tyrion watched his sister's face, while the kingslayer sent his twin a meaningful look. The queen carefully searched for words, unease hidden under the calm mask, but worry sparking to life in her green eyes.

"It's no mercy letting a child linger in such pain." She replied, her voice soft and gentle.

"Only the gods know for certain. All the rest of us can do is pray." The dwarf countered. He fixed her with his ugly laughing eyes, and reached over to steal a rasher of bacon from her plate. "The charms of the north seem entirely lost on you." He pointed at her heavy shawl with his bacon. She ignored the remark. _What charms?_ she wondered. She remembered the ice Wall, just a few hundred leagues farther north, and chastised aloud her brother's ridiculous idea to take in the cold structure. She would not stop him, though, however stupid it may be. _Gods be good, with any luck, he'll fall of the edge, maybe end up in a wildling's belly._

A few more words and Tyrion began spouting off disgusting things her children should never hear. She, Tommen and Myrcella left the Great Hall, her head held high, her eyes calculating.

The queen send off the little prince and princess to take an idle stroll about the grounds with five guards in company, whilst she paced in her borrowed chambers, her freezing hands clenched tightly in front of her. Twisting her stone ring round and round, she thought over and over on her grotesque little brother's bit of news.

Over a month had passed, and still the boy would not slip away. He _lingered_ on somehow, _refusing_ to die. He'd fallen far, and the maester was old and feeble. The old fool must be losing his wits for the boy could not _possibly_ survive after falling from that tower.

_Jaime, you beautiful fool_ , she thought tersely.

Perhaps the Imp was misinformed. After all, when _had_ Tyrion become such good friends with the Stark's maester? She had to see for herself, she had to _see_ if the child was sickly, pale, and weak, to see if it was just a mother's hope and a maester's old eyes that made the Imp say such fearful things to her. She would go to Lady Stark, speak with her, and hopefully find the boy failing.

She climbed the steps to the boy's chambers with heavy feet, and an even heavier heart. The boy's life was the price of her and Jaime's sins, and it was a heavy one to pay. Still, there was no price too high to keep her children safe, especially when she knew how fierce Robert's wrath could be.

A memory, ages old, appeared before her, reminiscent of a time when her love for Robert had still been alive inside her heart.

Sylvia had just been a little thing when her mother gifted her with a puppy. Joffrey was still little enough that he did not mind being held by his mother, so he watched from her arms as his sister babbled away to her pretend friend about what to call her new pet. It had been a happy moment; one she had thought would make Robert _see_ how much she could give him, how wise it would be to finally relinquish his rotted corpse in favor of a life with her. _We could make more memories like this, your Grace,_ she'd thought. The queen didn't remember the name Sylvia had picked, but she knew it was a Targaryen name. A grave mistake in her father's presence.

As soon as the word slipped from the child's mouth, Robert's eyes, blurred and dull from the wine, blazed like hot coals. At once, the king moved towards the little girl, his hand raised to deliver unwarranted punishment to his own child. Joffrey screamed in protest when she shoved him into a guard's arms, and Sylvia cried out when she pushed her to the floor, her puppy slipping from her hands to cower in the corner, but even now the queen did not regret it because Robert's hand met her face instead of Sylvia's.

She did not regret it as she fell to the floor, cradling her face as lights flashed before her eyes. She didn't regret it as her children screamed in fright for what they'd just seen, as Robert spat curses left and right before stomping from the room. She didn't regret her actions then, and she did not regret them now, because her daughter had never felt the pain of her own father's hand. A few days after, Robert, then sober, went to Sylvia's room and spent the whole day with her. He never apologized, but Cersei knew the day he spent with their daughter was out of shame. Not affection. 

The memory rekindled her hate for her king and a fierce instinct to protect her children from any harm _anyone_ would bring them. Robert had been willing to harm his eldest daughter—his _favorite_ —for something as simple as a name slip. She'd been a _child_ , a babe more than anything that still had all her baby teeth and talked to a fictions apparition day and night. Gods knew what he would have done to them if he ever learned the truth about Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella's true father.

She would kill him first, she'd vowed. But that would be terribly inconvenient.

Speaking and building a sort of trust between herself and Lady Stark was a small attempt to clean up the mess Jaime's brashness had flung them in, but perhaps the smallest thing could have the largest impact. Cersei braced herself as she spied the final step.

The door was open when she reached the top, unbarred and trusting that no one would sneak in to harm the boy as he slept. She strode through with ease, causing the auburn haired woman to glance up.

Catelyn Stark looked awful. There was no other word for it. She looked as though she'd aged ten years in only a month, her long auburn hair unkempt, tangled as a rats nest as though she constantly pulled at it. Her eyes were watery, her face pale apart from the dark half circles under her eyes. She had only dressed in her nightdress and robe, as though she could not take precious time away from her vigil to do something as menial as dress. Pity stabbed at her, empathy slicing through her at the reminder of her own loss. She shoved it away from her like poison.

Lady Stark had enough left in her to manage to look embarrassed. "I would have dressed your grace..." she mumbled as she stood.

"This is your home; I am your guest." The queen replied easily as she stepped further into the chambers. She eyed the boy lying peacefully in his bed. He was small, pale, his cheeks sunken in from the days without proper food. She had thought he would look worse, but he looked like a sleeping child, frail and sickly, but a sleeping child nonetheless. _Steffon_ , she thought. "Handsome one isn't he?" she said with a gentle smile.

Lady Stark nodded, returning to her seat, reaching forward to take her son's small hand in hers.

"I lost my first boy," she said abruptly and Catelyn returned her eyes to the regal form of the queen, hardly having the energy to appear very surprised. "Little black haired beauty. Sylvia's twin." She smiled at the memory of the midwives laying him on her chest the first time, how beautiful he'd been, even so wrinkled and red. He'd been so demanding, even so small, roaring in anger when he did not get what he wanted. She remembered marveling at those two little figures laid in their cradle, facing each other, clutching at one another, knowing safety was with each other when their mother was not in sight.

Her smile dimmed. "He was a fighter too. Tried to beat the fever that took him." She looked away from the small boy. "Forgive me. That's the last thing you need to hear right now." Cersei had always been a good liar but it was not so easy to conceal the discomfort and pain of talking about her boy to this stranger woman. It had been a very long time since she'd spoken about Steffon. The last time was when Robert betrothed Sylvia to Robb Stark, and she'd called Jaime to her in the hopes he could promise to stop the foolish match.

"I never knew." The lady said. Catelyn could not believe it. Sylvia, her good-daughter, had a twin. A brother she'd lost. She supposed it didn't make a difference in Sylvia's character, but still, it was quite a surprise. Why hadn't the girl mentioned it?

"It was years ago. As far as anyone knows, Sylvia came into the world alone. She doesn't know. I never allowed anyone to tell her. It would break her heart if she knew about him." She paused, the old wave of grief crashing over her once more, still fresh and biting as it was the first moment she awoke and found her son lifeless in her arms. "Robert was crazed; beat his hands bloody on the walls. All the things men do to show you how much they care." He smile was wan this time. Robert only knew violence, especially when he was wounded—whether it was in matters of pride, or matters of heart, he reacted in much the same way.

Their twins...Cersei forced back the prickling of tears. She _would not_ weep in front of this woman, but even now, she felt she was losing the battle she'd come here to fight.

"He and Sylvia looked exactly alike; no one could tell them apart, not even Robert." Only their mother had been able to tell between them and had prided herself for it. "Such little things. Couldn't stand to be apart, not for anything." She recalled how Sylvia had screamed when she took Steffon from their cradle how Steffon had made his anger clear in the way he'd whimpered and grasped for his twin. She sighed, absently digging her nails into her palm, the pain sharp and biting and so much better than the feeling inside her.

"When he died...they came to take his body away. I screamed, and battled, but Robert held me." She had to stop; she had to. She would start screaming or weeping if she didn't. She visited these memories on very late nights, and had never recounted them aloud to anyone before, not even her sweet brother. Jaime and Robert both knew what happened, and she had no desire to relive her account of those events to anyone.

But now she told Lady Catelyn, another mother in a similar position. For just a small, _fleeting_ moment, the queen forgot that the boy was a danger and hoped he would open his eyes. "Sylvia screamed for days after, as though she knew. Nothing would console her." tears stung her eyes and breathed in deep to steady herself. "That little bundle _..." he was so little_ , she wanted to say. _So beautiful and everything I'd ever wanted in one_ small _little bundle_. She wanted to say these things, but could not form the words. Somewhere, past this cloud of old pain, she knew this woman, at her core, was an enemy. She would not share her pain with someone she did not trust. Not even to ensure a she was never implemented for Bran Stark's fall. "They took him away and I never saw him again. Never visited the crypt, _never_...I could never tell Sylvia about him..."

"She will never hear it from me." The other woman assured, surprising the queen a moment. She nearly forgot Lady Stark was here. The queen nodded thankfully, her eyes on the small boy in the bed, strange emotion rising inside her. She took in a deep breath to settle herself. Apart of her was angry at this boy, at whoever decided that _this_ child should look to live, while her boy had withered in days without hope for recovery. She thought of Tyrion's words at breakfast, about praying. _Prayer was nothing,_ she thought bitterly. She'd prayed hours and hours on end, begged and promised the Mother for just a _pinch_ of Her mercy, and still her boy left her.

_But Sylvia lived_ , a voice whispered. _She lived and thrived and she grew beautifully_. She could not deny this, but it had been her son's recovery she prayed for and those prayers had gone unanswered.

"I pray to the Mother every morning and night that she return your child to you." _She will not listen,_ Cersei thought. _She never listened to me, why ever would she listen to you?_

"I am grateful." Cersei could see right through that sour smile of hers, one that betrayed her mistrust and wariness. The woman was no fool, but Cersei hoped she was just foolish enough to accept the boy's fall as an accident.

"Perhaps this time she'll listen."

* * *

Jon was just saddling his horse, and saying his goodbyes to Robb when Sylvia walked through the yard, her little girl perched in her arms, wrapped securely in cottons and furs, a little cap pulled over her black curls to protect her delicate little ears. Both men smiled at her, Robb taking Mini from her arms and greeting the babe as though she would greet him back. Jon watched as the little baby babbled something nonsensical to her father, tugging at his hair. Robb didn't seem to mind.

"So this is it then?" Sylvia asked with a wry smile. "You're leaving us forever?"

Jon grinned back. "Just until I swear my vows and find my place. I'll come back when Bran wakes."

Sylvia tugged at her gloves. "I hope so. I would like Mini to know her uncle's. _All_ of them." She smiled at him and Jon's heart warmed. It was not the kind of warmth he could see spread inside Robb when she smiled at him. No, _never_. Sylvia Baratheon had been Robb's the moment she set foot in Winterfell—first in obligation, and then in heart. For such reason, Jon could never see her as a free woman to adore and desire. She was not his. She was his brother's and even if he _could_ see her like that, he could never betray Robb in such a way. No. Warmth spread inside Jon Snow because she seemed wholly truthful. _She would make a kinder Lady Stark than Robb's mother_ , he thought mildly. "Stay safe on the road, will you? Don't be the only one to arrive at Castle Black with a freshly torn off limb." She joked.

Robb and Jon chuckled. "I don't intend to lose anything." The bastard boy replied. His good-sister stepped forward, her arms winding around Jon's body for a brief moment, as he awkwardly patted her back. When she pulled away, she once more stood beside Robb.

"Goodbye Jon Snow." Sylvia said after a long moment, a sad smile on her lips.

"Goodbye Sylv." He replied. Jon turned his smile to the babe in his brother's arms, reaching out so he held her little hand in his. "Farewell Mini."

"Say bye-bye to uncle, sweetheart." Sylvia smiled at her daughter. Minisa blinked, her mouth opening to reveal her two tiny bottom teeth, looking between her mama, uncle and father curiously. She liked that they smiled at her. Finally she gave a loud cry of glee, waving one free arm through the delightfully crisp air. The three laughed.

* * *

Saying farewell to the Stark girls was a bit harder. As the two little ladies and Arya ate their last meal together in Winterfell's kitchens, Sylvia could not help but dwell on the fact that she would not see Sansa and Arya for quite a long time. She hadn't seen her siblings until she was wedded and bedded with a child in her arms. Will she see Sansa and Arya before that? Will their lady mother go entirely mad when her girls were gone?

Sansa was all aflutter, babbling on and on about how gallant and charming her brother was, about how wonderful it would be to be made sisters with Sylvia twice over. Sansa was in love with the glamour of being betrothed to a prince, giddy and excited, she couldn't— _wouldn't_ —stop talking about the magnificence of it all and saw nothing fearful in leaving the only home she'd ever known.

Sylvia thought of this with a little shame heavy on her heart. When she was sent away, alone and scared to marry some stranger, she hadn't made it easy on those charged with her protection. She'd felt betrayed, cheated, and had made Ser Fredrik and sour Septa Maesa drag her all but kicking and screaming up north. Once, she remembered such things with a kind of fondness, feeling that she'd done her House proud for not taking something she thought so awful with the meekness of a rabbit. Now she wondered if she should have been courteous, well-mannered, regal and stoic, the way she was raised. She was embarrassed as she thought about how she'd been, while Sansa embraced leaving home with such ease and happiness.

She understood Arya a little more than her elder sister—a first really since knowing the little wildling. As Sansa gleamed with excitement, Arya patted her wolf—Nymeria she'd named her—and snuck a glare or two at her sister. Arya was unwilling, she didn't want to go, didn't want to wear the pretty dresses the queen had given them as a gift, didn't want to ride in the royal wheelhouse and hated her septa for forcing her to. Now that sounded quite familiar to Sylvia.

"Oh just think Sylvia, next time we meet, I'll marry your brother, and I'll be the _queen_. How splendid. And perhaps Joff will make Robb his Hand, and you can come to live in the Capitol!" Sansa exclaimed happily. Sylvia smiled back, knowing that would probably never happen.

"That won't be until the king dies, idiot. And the prince is _mean_ to Robb. Why would he want to be Hand?" Arya replied edgily.

"He is not! Robb was rude to him _first_!" Sansa huffed.

"Liar! The prince is vile and stupid, just like you!" Arya snapped back.

"Shut up!" the elder girl countered. "You're jealous you will never be the queen. You'll marry some _ugly_ horse breeder and have horse face babies!"

Sylvia had had enough. "Whatever happened with Robb and Joffrey is meant to be left between them. Sansa, Arya will marry someone wonderful and have beautiful babes." she cut in, her voice as sharp and final as a knife. Sansa looked at her good-sister—her princes' royal sister—and felt her face colour in shame. Tactless children indulge their ill-mannered little sisters in petty arguments. Not a lady who would be queen one day. She hoped Sylvia wouldn't tell Joff about it. The last thing she wanted was to shame herself in Joffrey's eyes—his beautiful, emerald eyes that shone brighter than the sought after jewel. But Arya was already _spoiling everything!_

"I don't want to ever get married!" Arya decided with a scowl at her elder sister, to which Sansa replied with a muted grimace. Sylvia's lips twitched.

So their time together ended as it began—Sansa and Arya arguing, Sylvia having a difficult time trying to get between them.

* * *

Soon—too soon—it was time to bid the royals and the Starks farewell, truly and for the last time.

Robb and Sylvia stood in line, backs straight and proud, Robb standing where his father once stood, with Sylvia to his left like a true Lord and Lady, as Rickon stood beside Sylvia. The Lady felt sad that the child's mother wouldn't attend, at the very least to give the boy courage. His lip was trembling already. She would have held his hand, but knew Robb would be displeased at her 'coddling' him. Strong men were not built against their mother's bosom.

King Robert moved forward, his face stern as he regarded the new Lord of Winterfell. She was proud of her husband not flinching where lesser men would look away. Her father took his big meaty hand and closed it around Robb's. "Good luck. Keep an eye out for my girl." The king grumbled sternly. Sylvia couldn't help but smile, a giddy flutter in her belly. Father hadn't called her ' _his girl'_ in so long. Her husband nodded solemnly.

"Safe travels, your Grace. It was a pleasure to house you here at Winterfell." Said Robb, his lord's voice coming through.

Robert grunted and turned to his daughter, struck once again at seeing the little babe blinking up at him curiously, her black hair reminding him once more that Sylvia was a mother. He gave the little girl a smile, his hand reaching up to tickle her under her chin. Minisa gave a gurgle, her little hand reaching up to examine the thing that tickled her. Sylvia smiled, and looked back up at her father.

"It was wonderful to see you again father. You are always welcome back should you decide on another visit." She spoke graciously.

As callous as Robert could be, as embarrassing as he was when drunk, he would always be her father. The one who'd picked her up and thrown her in the air as a child, the one who sat her on her horse the first time she rode, and the one who'd planned the match between her and Robb. He was responsible for countless other memories, some good, others bad, but he was her father. Her father. The one who'd always been. The one who she thought was invincible.

"Take care, child." He said to her, his hand coming awkwardly to her shoulder. She nodded, offering him a soft smile. He suddenly reached into his cloak, and brought out a little thing, obscured by his large hand. "Here," frowning, she took what he offered in her hand, her heart swelling as it settled with a gentle rattle of the contents within. The wood was smooth and sleek, freshly made and never played with. "For your girl. And any others you carry." He grumbled out, his voice as brisk as ever, unaware just how touched his daughter was.

"It's beautiful," she agreed, nodding up at her father, her soft smile spreading into a wide joyful grin. "Thank you." He nodded, and moved on to pat Rickon on the head, before turning and striding towards his horse. As he walked, Sylvia looked down at the little rattle, heart warming at spying the little stags on the round bulbous top, playing and running and nibbling on the grass. Flowers encircled the handle which extended no longer than her index finger.

Robb looked at her, watching with a smile as she shook the new toy at Mini, the baby reaching out to grab it, her mother grinning happily.

Sylvia bid goodbye to the rest of her family, Robb saying his farewells to his father and sisters beside her. Eventually Rickon could not hold his courage any longer and began to weep, stumbling into Sylvia's legs and clinging for life. She hadn't the heart to push him away and tell him to be mindful of the eyes who would laugh at him. She rested a gentle hand on his shoulder, keeping him close to her, hearing his sniffles grow louder as his father rode out the gate behind the king, that large creaky wheelhouse rattling behind.

She did not weep; princesses did not weep in public and cause such a scene. But she would have if only she'd known the future. If she'd known this was the last time she would see her family without the resonating feeling of loss and betrayal set into her bones.

She would have if she'd known.

But she didn't.


	15. Crumbling

**Chapter 12 : Crumbling**

Eight days had gone since Lord Eddard and her royal father's departure from Winterfell and since then, Sylvia felt she had been aptly educated by Catelyn about how to be Lady Stark. But her preparation did not mean that the work was any easier on her shoulders and it did not mean that she was better prepared to take care of a child who was not hers.

" _Mother!"_ the littlest Stark child bellowed, kicking the furs and blankets off his legs. _"I want mother!"_

" _It's late,_ Rickon _._ Mother is probably asleep, just as _you_ should be." her voice trembled slightly, her tired eyes lighting with annoyance. Sylvia had been trying and failing to get Rickon to sleep for over an hour now, the sun long since set and beds were filled with warm, sleepy castle dwellers. She longed to be one of them, curled up beside her husband, her sleeping baby's gentle breath lulling her into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Every time she managed to settle the boy, something would suddenly occur to him and make him forget all about sleep. First it had been a story, then a lullaby, a drink of water and that was all well and good since he was in bed and on his way to slumber. But then he remembered he needed to bid his mother goodnight, and then he wanted only _her_ to tuck him in.

It seemed cruel to Sylvia to deny the child a chance to see his mother, but it was so late, and Lady Catelyn needed sleep desperately. The last Sylvia had seen her, Catelyn had looked halfway mad—so ragged and snappish, the southerner wondered when the woman had last slept. So she kept Rickon in his room, on the hope his mother had found sleep.

_Seeing her wouldn't do much anyhow_ , she thought. Catelyn hardly seemed to give much notice when Rickon came to see her—her replies half-hearted and simple, and her eyes never straying from the child on the sickbed longer than a moment. It seemed, as though, in her fear that one of her children would slip away while she was not looking, she missed her other children. Rickon would leave even sadder than when he'd entered.

His mother hadn't even left Bran's side to see her husband and daughters off, and had instead said her goodbyes in that _horrible_ chamber.

Rickon _needed_ his mother, he didn't need Sylvia. Almost everyone he'd loved had left him, and the ones who remained were suddenly too busy for him. But never once had his mother left Bran's side, even as Rickon wept and begged and asked endlessly for her. _Poor little wolf_ , she thought, stoking his auburn hair.

He sniffled against her, whining and whimpering, and soon his pleas turned to Shaggy Dog. By night, Shaggy and his brothers stalked the godswood, hunting the small game there, and howling up into the night. Every night, she could hear it through the closed windows, the wolves singing that sad song which made her ache in some strange way she didn't understand.

But to allow little Rickon to stumble through the godswood in the dark was foolish, and she refused to indulge the boy, although doing so would bring the child's tantrum to height. The animal would be near _impossible_ to find in the darkness, with its black coat like a moving shadow. And if the creature _did_ come to them, who was to say he wouldn't mistake them for a tender bit of flesh to eat?

Robb trusted those wolves like he trusted nothing else and Sylvia trusted Grey Wind enough, but she could _never_ trust Shaggy Dog. With a little shudder, she remembered how the creature had snarled at her the other day when Rickon had snuck him into the Great Hall for dinner. She'd chastised him that Shaggy was meant to hunt rather than be fed table scraps, but the wolf had bared his teeth at her, as though he knew her words. She kept Rickon watched closer after that, so he would not bring the creature inside again.

His cries and sobs seemed louder in the small room, bouncing off the stone walls and around her head. "I want Shaggy!" he cried. Her attempts to soothe the boy seemed to fall dead each time she spoke, and soon, anger began to colour her tone. She didn't know if that made him cry louder, but it didn't matter. He kept crying. Soon it became clear that her voice was part of the problem, and so Sylvia sat silently, Rickon in her arms, rocking him like a babe until he finally shut up.

When his cries faded into whimpers, the lone sound of a wolf's howl curled trough the air, as faint and lazy as smoke. She didn't doubt that was Shaggy, and wondered if his keen ears had heard his little master's tantrum through all the thick walls of the castle. His head peeked up from her shoulder, his teary eyes brightening at hearing the wolf sing, and he began pushing at her, eager to be let down.

"Shaggy!" He cried, joy shining in his little voice. "Shaggy's calling me! I want Shaggy!" he twisted and squirmed until she had no choice but to let his tiny feet onto the frozen floor. He dashed for the door swift as a deer, but his good-sister caught him round the middle.

"Nonono. Rickon it's the middle of the night, Shaggy is hunting." He grunted, writhing once again to escape, and Sylvia took hold of his shoulders, leveling him with the hard stare befitting a princess. Rickon stilled, his feet shuffling impatiently. "Little wolf, _your_ wolf is hunting. You don't want him to go hungry, do you?"

"But he's not hunting!" Rickon insisted, his voice full of certainty.

"He's out there in the dark; _I will not_ allow you out there. It's dangerous." She tried to reason.

"No it isn't. I have Shaggy!" as if to agree, a second wolf joined in his brother's song. Sylvia trembled.

"No." She said evenly. "Now get into bed."

" _Sylvieee!"_ Rickon whined, his cheeks flushing in anger. "I need Shaggy! Shaggy!" He tried to pull himself away from her hands.

_Seven Hells, you'd obey if it were Robb's voice commanding you_ , she thought bitterly. Being the boy's brother and lord, Rickon always minded Robb before her. If it would do any good, she would wish Robb here now, to console and settle his little brother as she hadn't been able to. Alas, her husband had left her hours ago, tending to some late night letters and scrolls.

The night before, as she rocked Mini's cradle to lull her into sleep, he'd sworn to her that he'd have words with his mother about retaking the role of mother to poor Rickon, and she dearly hoped that the lady had heard him.

In the eight days since the Royal convoy had left with Lord Eddard in tow, the littlest Stark had been trying to make sense of everything happening around him, and becoming more miserable with every day that passed. The poor child would cry and whine and be as approachable as a hurt animal—it was either his mother, Shaggy Dog or Robb he wanted, but often Sylvia was the one he had to content himself with. He didn't understand _why_ his father and sisters had to leave, and understood even less why Jon had gone away. He was seven years old, too young to understand why his mother never smiled or why his brother was always busy.

When he could, Rickon would cling to Robb's leg and cry when he tried to detach him, so there were times when Robb attended meetings and appointments with Rickon round his legs. Sylvia knew this couldn't remain. Robb couldn't earn his men's respect with a child clinging to him. So it was Sylvia who took care of Rickon in the day, as he refused anybody else. She saw the reluctance in her husband's eyes when he brought the boy to her, who wept and begged to go with Robb.

Often, one of the only ways to soothe the poor boy—after visiting his mother proved futile—was to allow him to be near his wild wolf, who never once snarled at him as he did everybody else. Shaggy was not permitted to be inside the castle after it became apparent that the stone walls were not big enough to control his temper. He'd begun snapping at the maids when they came too close. Like Rickon, he was happier in the godswood.

"What you need, Little Wolf is to sleep. You may see Shaggy tomorrow after breakfast—"

"No! _Now!"_ he screamed. The howls grew louder, and suddenly, that was not the only sound coming from outside. Cries of horror took up outside, muffled by the walls and closed shudders. Shouts of _fire_ and _water_ interrupted the continuous song of the wolves. Her brows furrowed, her heart tightening with fear _. A fire?_ She nearly grabbed for Rickon and made for the door in search of Mini, but if there was a fire just outside the door, they would be burned to ash.

Rickon's struggles to dash out the door paused a moment too in confusion.

One hand still holding to Rickon's, Sylvia moved to the window, one hand shoving open the shudders, grace forgotten in place of urgency. At once, the arid scent of burning wood and thatch assaulted her, the bright orange flames casting light over her and Rickon's astonished faces.

"Sylvie! The library's tower is on fire!" Rickon cried in wonder.

* * *

Across the castle, in the sickroom, young Bran Stark slept peacefully—unaware that his mother had been maimed in trying to protect him from attack, and that his wolf's jaws were bloody after ripping out his would-be killer's throat.

The nameless wolf with yellow eyes blinked up at Catelyn as he settled on her son's bed, protectively at her son's side as he had been when Bran got hurt. The pain in her hands was worth seeing her son's chest move with every gentle intake of breath.

But the dead man's opened throat, lying on the floor left a dark question: why had he tried to kill her son?

* * *

For generations, the realm had praised House Stark for their good sense, their steady hands when it came to justice and honour, their bravery. Her own royal father had said he would've been dead a hundred times in the Rebellion, were it not for Lord Eddard. Starks were not known for their ferocity, for their rage and sometimes people forgot that the north forges its men in ice, and that an icy rage could burn as deeply as wildfire.

In all her time with Robb, she'd never _seen_ him so angry. When Bran got hurt, he'd been a wounded animal, but now, he was an enraged wolf, looking to tear someone apart, limb by limb until there was nothing recognizable left. It filled the air around him like a mist, and it made her cautious to speak to him, for once fearing he'd snap his jaws at her. He made a formidable figure, all without ever raising his voice above that dangerous growl and without lashing out blows to those who would displease him.

No. Robb Stark was calm for the moment, wrath fuming beneath the surface. For her part, Sylvia clenched her hands around her shawl, her mind racing out of control with fear for their safety and rage that someone would threaten such a helpless child. But she kept silent, for now, her years of royal decorum coming into play as she reigned in her anger so that Robb could demand answers with his.

They stood together in the foreboding shadows of the Great Hall, the moon hiding its face behind clouds as dull firelight flickered in the hearth behind them. Ser Rodrik the master-at-arms stood to Robb's right and Sylvia to his left, a little behind him to grant the men the necessary space to converse. Her belly squirmed with need to speak out, but she couldn't. She scoffed internally. Beside the old master-at-arms, stood Maester Luwin, and beside him was Varly, the newly appointed captain of the guard.

Their words were short, Robb's voice cutting through their replies as sharp as steel, demanding to know who this hired knife was, where he had hidden, and who had sent him.

No one had any answers to offer their angry lord, and soon, Robb sent them away to find them, leaving only him and his wife, still her sleeping gown, in the Great Hall.

The southern girl knew not if it was wise to approach her husband, but she had to. If he would throw off her attempts to comfort him like he had when Bran had gotten hurt, she would not push him this time. The need to know _who_ had ordered this hideous act to be carried out burned inside her, fury hot enough to scorch the ancient stone walls of Winterfell. But there was also a cold horror, to think someone had come in so easily.

She'd held her tongue before his men, as she'd been taught to, but now that they were alone, she would and could not be silenced.

"I know all the servants in this castle. He isn't one of ours." She bit out. "He got in, somehow. Undetected. Unquestioned."

"A mistake that won't be repeated." He growled back at her, his voice gentler than the one he used on the others.

"Look at me." She demanded softly, her voice stern and undeniable. Slowly, the young lord turned and met his wife's eyes, finding that, despite her harsh voice, her blue irises were wide, full of fear and uncertainty. "How can you say with _certainty_ that this man is not one of many? What if they come for our _daughter_ next?!" She broke off, the words closing her throat painfully. Her toes clenched, her hands tightening around herself.

Her words squeezed his heart mercilessly. Robb drew comfort from the fact that he'd posted guards at every gate, at every entrance into the Great Keep and at the door to the sickroom, Rickon's room, his mother's chambers and the chambers he shared with Sylvia and Mini. No one entered or left without his knowledge.

His wife knew this; she'd been in the Hall when he'd made the order. But it was clear that her thoughts were going wild. His own mother, despite hearing from their trusted maester that Bran would survive, had gone mad in her time away from the world. He suddenly came to the conclusion that all mothers are a little mad where their children are concerned. It came with the love, he figured. But he would not have his wife going out of her head for fears that would never come to light. Long ago, he'd made a promise that when they married, he would help her relax. As silly a promise as it had been, it's worth still stood.

"It was Bran and my mother they were after." He reminded her. His mother kept murmuring that he'd come for Bran, before the maester gave her poppy milk to calm her

" _This_ time." She murmured bitterly, looking away.

"No, not ' _this'_ time. This will be the _only_ time." Her husband snapped back. "If anyone dared come near Mini with intent to harm her, I will cut out their living heart and give it to you." The threat made her tremble, because she knew he truly meant it. Still, in all the time she'd spent with the Starks, nothing of this sort had ever happened, and it frightened her. Mini was just a fragile little baby, and although Sylvia and Robb would protect her fiercely, they could not be with her all hours of the day. Or with Rickon, or with Catelyn.

"Someone was _fool_ enough to make an attempt on Bran—" she protested hotly.

"And his wolf ripped out his throat." He counted decisively. He stepped closer to her, watching as she shifted uncertainly. Boldly, she looked up to him, mouth set in a stern line, fully expecting icy rage to linger in his face. There was rage, but also softness, a fear and worry that matched her own. "They are _safe_ , Sylvia. Efforts must be put to finding the monster who hired him."

"The man is dead; he cannot say who sent him. Who could want your mother and brother dead? They're innocent." Sylvia pondered a loud, her voice losing its sharp edge as rage was replaced with dismay.

"Whoever it is, I will find them and make them answer for their crimes." He longed for it, she could see it plainly written in his eyes, the thirst for revenge and justice. She hoped to be there when he took it. Her husband's eyes flicked over her face, the coldness in the icy depths thawing the slightest bit as he took her in.

"Go and rest. Mini will be crying for her mother before long." Robb said. Already, the blackness of the sky was fading into a dark blue, the night being taken up in these horrid affairs. They'd all been up all night, dousing the fire, and tending to his wounded mother before scouring the castle for other killers and answers. They'd found none, and his wife was weary and frightened. Never mind the fury bubbling inside her which sapped her already depleted energy.

His eyes softened more as he looked at her, gathering up her skirts as she prepared to leave. She would leave angry, without comfort or a warm hand. Robb did not wish that. She stepped away, but was stopped by a firm hand to her shoulder.

"We will find the monster that ordered this, and bring him to justice." His hand ghosted up her shoulder, coming to rest on her cheek, his thumb running gently over the bone. "I vow to you." Her eyes regarded him, trusting but also questioning. "Rest. For both of us."

She sighed, a hand reaching up to hold lay against his. "I can't sleep now. I need to be with my baby, and...and make sure Rickon attends his lessons." It was a lame thing to say and she knew it, but Rickon had to keep up with his education. Not only that, but it would keep him distracted too. She didn't want to frighten him with knowledge of the grizzly affairs which very nearly took both his brother and his mother from his grasp.

"Rickon can miss one day, and spend it with his wolf. They'll both be happier; they'll both take the distraction without question." She opened her mouth to protest, but Robb shook his head. "It's alright, Syl. Go, be with Mini. Keep an ear for Rickon."

"Always." She promised quietly.

He kissed her softly, his lips lingering on hers before he drew back. "Guard!" he called, and suddenly, two armoured Stark men entered the Hall from the archway leading into the corridor. "Escort my wife back to the chambers. Stay with her all throughout the night, and through her duties."

"Yes, my lord." They murmured in reply. Sylvia smiled a gentle smile at them, hoping to hide whatever ugly emotion was written on her face from the two. She would not have the northerners think her feeble.

"Come." She ordered softly, a gentle smile offered to the two. With a look to her husband and a swish of her warm cotton nightdress, Sylvia left the Great Hall.

* * *

Four more days passed them by, and still there were no answers.

No one recognized the eviscerated corpse who'd come to murder Bran as he slept, no one knew where he'd come from or for how long he'd been hiding. Although they found his hiding spot in the empty stable stalls, and found forty silver pieces in a little satchel buried beneath the hay, no one had seen him before.

Robb speculated to his wife that mayhaps he'd come in with the royal convoy, but Sylvia briskly dismissed the idea. There was no chance a killer had come in with her family, for who in the south would want a woman and child they'd never met, dead? Robb had seemed to agree with her reasoning.

They discussed wildlings, and jealous lords and deranged peasants, but nothing stood firm. Wildlings never ventured down very far before being caught and killed by the men of the Watch, _if_ they even made it past the Wall. Robb trusted his lords beyond all measure, and when she'd suggested such a thing, he dismissed her at once. They'd come for Bran's birth, cheered his name when his father named him, and what would have been the point, besides? On top of all else, a deranged peasant wouldn't have such funds at his disposal, and the people of Winterfell would have heard of a madman within the walls.

Someone had _paid_ the dead man, and they didn't know who.

Another attack never came, but there would never be another time when a Stark was left unguarded.

As dawn broke on the morning of the fifth day, Lady Catelyn awoke. The cuts to her hands had been deep, and healing of the body, as well as the mind would have to be done whilst asleep. The maester gave her poppy's milk, and she slept without waking for four days.

Lady Catelyn opened her eyes with a newfound clarity when she woke to the early morning sun. The noise inside her head stopped, quietened with ease knowing her boy was safe. She'd seen the wolf kill the man who would have killed her son. Robb was no fool; he didn't and would not take Bran's life idly, especially after what had happened. She knew in her heart that Bran was safe, guards and wolves protecting him where she could not. She longed to see him, to take in his sweet little face and hold his hand in her own, but did not want to go to his side looking the deranged woman she had been.

Soon, a serving girl came through the door, squealing and dropping the fresh linens to the rushes at seeing the lady sitting up in bed. The guards outside the door burst through, hands on the swords at their hips, and ready to slash and carve into whatever gave the girl a fright. After a scant moment of shock, they averted their eyes at seeing the lady in her bed, clad only in her night clothes, hair rumpled from sleep. Catelyn made no acknowledgement of their bumbling apologies.

"Fetch Maester Luwin and my son to me." She said, voice clear as a bell.

They came, and the Maester changed the dressings on her wounds as Robb told her all of what had happened while she was asleep.

"Mother, when we found you, you kept saying the killer—"

" _Attempted_ killer." She reminded him sharply.

" _Attempted_ killer kept muttering something." It had been Robb who found her, she remembered. Still knelt down on the floor, stunned into silence, hands gushing blood, her eldest boy found her. He had rushed to her side, made her to sit, and called for the maester. Through all of that, her eyes darted between her child and the wolf beside him, who'd killed so readily for his little master.

She'd been mad, she knew this and was ashamed for this, but she had seen the hired knife _lunge_ for her son. She'd heard him mutter something.

"Yes." Her eyes were far away as she remembered that night, the memories clear as water. She remembered clearly the prayer wheel she'd been crafting, trying to distract herself. She remembered her hands shaking with fatigue and anguish, unable to concentrate on her task. She remembered Robb, before the fire, trying to talk sense into her, his words about Rickon needing her tearing into her like knives.

She wouldn't hear it, and had even spoken out against Sylvia. At that, Lady Catelyn grimaced in shame and looked down in her lap. She knew Sylvia had taken command as Lady of Winterfell in her absence, and one of those duties was to ease the Lord of Winterfell's burdens, to give him peace with soft words and understanding at the end of the day. Speaking out of defence, she'd saddled Robb's troubles up to an unhelpful little lady wife, because it was simply easier and less painful than admitting the horrible truth: she was mad, and a foul mother to her other children as she took care of Bran.

"He kept muttering on about how I wasn't meant to be there." She looked up at her son. "He lunged for _Bran_ , Robb. He meant to _kill_ him."

His eyes closed briefly, hiding the flash of pain there. "I know. We've searched the castle, the grounds, and the land just outside the walls. The only thing we've found is his hiding place: the stables. In a pile of hay we found a satchel in forty silver stags."

Catelyn scoffed. Her baby's life was worth forty bits of silver to some evil.

"We questioned every servant, my lady." Maester Luwin added. "No one knew him. No one even knew he was there."

"I would have every _bloody_ stable hand thrashed!" the lady hissed out between clenched teeth. How in the name of all the gods, could they not have noticed a full grown man sleeping in the stable stalls?!

"Most of the stalls are empty, my lady. Most of the horses have gone south with Lord Stark." The maester reminded his voice gentle and wise.

She drew in a deep breath and reigned in some of her anger. The stable hands were the least of their worries. _They_ were not the ones who sent someone to kill her son. "You said no one recognised him?" Robb nodded. "He must have come in with the royal party. Hundreds of strangers all milling about like flies, it would be easy for someone to come in undetected."

Robb shook his head. "I've already spoken with Sylvia. She doesn't believe anyone from the south would have reason to want Bran dead."

"Of course she doesn't." Catelyn countered ruefully. "They're her family. She sees them with eyes different than our own."

"I _trust_ my wife, mother." Her son defended, his jaw set and his eyes hard.

"You shouldn't trust her family. Her family is not ours." She advised. "When the royals first came, I received a letter from your Aunt Lysa. She told me that she believed the Lannisters were involved in some way in Jon Arryn's death."

Robb scoffed derisively. "A distant relation's word next to the word of the daughter of the people you accuse? Accusing the Queen's family, at that? This is _treason_ , mother!"

Catelyn gave her son a withering glare. "You _must_ think of these things now, Robb. As Lord of Winterfell. You cannot believe whatever words your people hand you."

"Sylvia is _not_ my subject. She is my _wife_. Remember that. And why would someone in the south try to kill Bran?" Robb demanded edgily.

"I don't know." She admitted unflinchingly. "But for some reason, someone wanted to kill him twice."

Maester Luwin frowned at this new information, whilst Robb's angry expression twitched into surprise. "Tw-twice?" sounded Robb.

"The tower. I hadn't thought of it then, but I believe it now. Someone _pushed_ Bran, I know it!"

"And you think it's the Lannisters?" Robb asked, more puzzled now than defensive. He didn't want to believe it. Sylvia's judgement on the character of her family had always been enough for him and it felt wrong to question it. Of course he'd never been overly fond of her father, and he tried to avoid her severe looking mother as much as he could, but he respected them for his wife. Because she loved them. To question her family, to accuse them of these horrible crimes would hurt her.

"Possibly. I believe they hold some kind of involvement." His mother replied.

"But why, my lady?" Maester Luwin asked.

Catelyn shook her head and looked back up at her son. He glared at something down at the floor, his face thinking. The boy he was peeked through his eyes—those tired, angry, blue eyes—and a burst of pity for her eldest boy came into her heart. He loved this woman, the daughter of the people who may have hurt her child.

And Catelyn loved her too; she made Robb happy, lit up his world and kept it bright for him. She'd given him a daughter, healthy and beautiful and nothing could ever change that. She understood his reluctance to believe her theory, but it was the only theory which fit. He couldn't flinch away from the truth or the promise of justice for his little brother because of Sylvia.

"Robb," he looked up at her. "We can't turn away from this. You know that." Her son sighed, turning away towards the fire, looking deep into its flames. "I love her too." she added gently. "If it was her family who did this to your brother," she paused, letting the idea linger a moment. "Then we cannot let them free for Sylvia's sake."

"And if they had no hand?" Robb spat. "Then my wife is gutted."

"Which is why we must speak of this to no one. Better not have her upset for no reason, if there is no reason to be." She provided. It was a half truth, really. If Sylvia knew of their suspicions, who knew what mad thing she would do. "I will see the Broken Tower and search there for answers." Robb sighed. He would not deny his mother the opportunity, because truly, he was curious now too. He had no love for the Lannisters, it was true, but it was for Sylvia why he was unsettled with this accusation. It felt that to accuse the Lannisters was to accuse his wife, and that idea unsettled him even more, although he knew she would have never had a hand in Bran's fall.

"Do it then, when you're feeling able." Robb sent her a look, his blue eyes filled with displeasure. She nodded to her son, her liege lord. Grimly, she stared back down at her bandaged hands as he took his leave.

* * *

Seeing the Broken Tower had proved to further confirm what she already knew. Between the cracks in the floor on the highest window, where the debris was cleared away for some odd reason, she found a long, blonde hair. For a moment she'd mistaken it for thread.

No one in the north had such pale hair, and no one with such hair visited Winterfell in quite a long time. Save for the queen. The queen _herself_ pushed her boy from the window. She'd seen his face, frightened and innocent, and still she'd shoved him out into the cold rushing air and had probably listened when he met the earth. _What kind of monster was she?_

If she felt any twinge of pity for the woman for having a callous drunkard to call her husband, and a child in the grave, it burned away now. The woman had offered to _pray_ for her son's recovery; she'd looked into her face, and had lied, had offered _sympathy_. She'd come into Bran's room, looked upon her crime, and had not looked a whit guilty. Catelyn felt sick suddenly, her belly tight with horror and fear and hate all at once.

To steady herself, the elder lady Stark sat on an old fallen roof beam, breathing deep to quell the rising madness.

To think something, and to know something were two separate things, it seemed. Knowing the truth only gave her the smallest comfort of knowing justice would be done, for her boy, and for her sister's husband, but at once, it gave her a crushing ache, a sinking, sick feeling of dread and fear.

This would change and shape the kingdom, for better or worse, she knew not. She feared to know.

Sylvia had come into her home when she was little more than a girl, only starting to become a woman, and since that day nearly six years ago, she and the southern girl had formed a kind of bond that was borne out of similar circumstances.

She'd taught her about the monthlies, about ladyhood, about what the northerners expected of her. She'd helped prepare her for her wedding and watched on as she and Robb swore themselves to one another. She'd held her hand when the girl had nearly lost her child in the seventh month, and had helped her to fashion her own prayer wheel for the baby when she was born. Catelyn held her hand as she grunted through the pains of labor and brought her own child into the world.

So much trust had grown between them, so much _affection_. Was all that burned away now, knowing what her wretched mother had done? _Should_ it be burned away? On the beam, she clenched her eyes shut, leaning her head back against the old stone which made the tower.

Catelyn hated Jon Snow, she admitted, for less. Hated him for simply being the reminder of her husband's transgression—she might have overlooked him, but Ned had brought him into their home, to be a constant reminder of the woman he'd betrayed her with. But when Catelyn thought of her good-daughter, she saw only Robb and Mini, only good. The time she'd had with the girl, coming to care for her, could not be set aside.

But she was the daughter of the woman who'd come under her roof, and attempted to slay her son, not only once, but _twice_!

In a sudden fury she stood and began to pace. Her heart thundered in her ears, her eyes intense but unseeing as her thoughts ran wild. Were her eldest boy and her precious grandchild forever bound to the wretched woman now, through Sylvia? She wanted her family to have _no part_ in the poison of the Lannisters, but it was impossible now. _Sylvia bound them together_ , she thought bitterly.

What did Sylvia know of her family's plots and wrongs? Had she any knowledge of why Bran had fallen in the first place? She remembered how the girl had consoled her as she wept, as Bran was treated by Maester Luwin, just before her husband came back from the hunt. Looking back now, Catelyn wanted to throw the girl's arms off her, to shake her until she had her answers.

Did she know? Oh there it was—the horrible thought. Had Sylvia known? Had Catelyn nurtured a snake under her roof? Tending what she thought was a bud which would one day burst into bloom, had Sylvia turned out to be a poison, come to tear her family apart? The girl was not proficient at schemes and tricks. She hadn't lied before and it was plain she loved Robb, and was loyal to him. But should the axe fall when justice came, on which side would Sylvia stand?

It was an impossible question to pose, with the only foreseeable answers meaning betrayal to one of her families. But in her heart, Catelyn felt she already knew the answer. Sylvia looked up to her mother as very young children do, seeking affection and praise, blind to flaws and devout to the point of madness. As much as it tore into her to think it, the elder Lady of Winterfell felt Sylvia was already lost to believing her mother over her husband.

The girl would likely _betray_ Robb. Her poor son.

Her pacing stopped, a new kind of hurt welling inside her and she brought a trembling hand up to her mouth. This was madness. She was getting ahead of herself—she still had to bring this to her husband's attention and only then could justice be administered. And her findings would be laughed upon, be deemed the disillusioned paranoia of a mother looking for someone to blame for her child's accident. There was no way to tell for sure, without a doubt who had tried to kill her son. The only man who truly knew had no throat. A hair could travel on the wind, and somehow find itself buried between two dusty stretches of wood.

A tiny part of her almost prayed she was wrong. If she were right, if this matter was brought to public eye, who knew the effect it would have on her son's marriage. She did not wish to cause her boy pain, although she longed for justice for her youngest. Her son could find another wife, but the one who hurt Bran would never change.

Robb _loved_ Sylvia, they'd built a life together, and this could tear it all down. Sylvia was the mother of her grandchild! She was not an enemy, the sentimental part of her reasoned. She is my son's wife, my good-daughter, dear and close to her heart. And yet, it hurt a hundred times worse when she recalled this, to think she was tainted with murderous Lannister blood, when she was so loved in the north.

Sylvia was shamed in Catelyn's eyes, simply because of who bore her. Nothing, not even Sylvia's support of justice, would change this.

Outside the window, a crow called, looking on as the woman left the tower to gather her son, the ward, the maester and the arms master.


	16. Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!

**Chapter 13: Secrets**

" _I will ride to King's Landing myself."_

" _Mother no."_

" _I will. Your father must know he has delved into the snake pit."_

" _When, my lady?"_

" _Three days time, Ser Rodrik."_

* * *

Like every morning for the past three days, Sylvia awoke alone, Robb's side of the bed long since cold. He woke early, and came to bed late, where she would be on the edges of sleep when she felt the bed dip and a warm, hairy leg rub against hers. Night time had always been their time, a time when the burdens of the day were set aside, when the grandeur of their titles was shed and they were simply _Robb_ and _Sylvia_ once more.

Perhaps things had calmed down some, now that Lady Catelyn had returned to the world from the dreary little sickroom where Bran still slept. Rickon was brighter, and clung to Robb less. There was a sense of normalcy, greatly missed these last long weeks. But for all the good Lady Catelyn's simple presence did to ease the nervousness in the castle, there was something chilly in Catelyn's presence, something secret. Unsaid and uncomfortable, at least to Sylvia anyway.

Sylvia dismissed her aloofness straight off. The woman had nearly lost her son, had seen her husband and daughters depart for the south, and had nearly been killed by some deranged monster. But she'd discussed this with Maester Luwin at length. The kindly old maester had always had the gentlest council, and when she brought to him her concerns that Lady Catelyn was still unsound of mind, he'd assured her that time was the remedy.

Still, although she knew the reason, it did not quell the sting of Catelyn's inhospitable presence. When she came to Winterfell as a girl, she'd never known she would forge such a friendship with her betrothed's mother. Sylvia assumed that Catelyn would, well, be like her own mother, only without any sort of affection to soothe the sting of propriety. But over the years, after so many kind smiles and wise words of council, Catelyn had forged herself a place in Sylvia's heart.

It had been when Mini nearly arrived too early, that made her realize how dear Catelyn was to her. While she flinched away from her husband out of shame and fear that he'd come to blame of her for the near loss of their child, it had been Catelyn who coaxed out her hidden feelings, her fears. Somehow, she hadn't feared that Catelyn would hate her for what happened or be ashamed for the pathetic and weepy mess she'd become.

From one mother, to a woman just beginning her journey as a mother, Catelyn had given her good-daughter courage to see through her fear and guilt. It gave her courage to reopen her heart to Robb, although fear had still had its talons in her. It helped see her through the next weeks until she finally held her healthy, screaming baby daughter in her arms, when the lingering fear was wiped away.

Now Catelyn shunned her invitations to share a meal, to see visit Mini or to take the air with her.

_It doesn't hurt,_ Sylvia told herself firmly. _It's only terribly confusing_.

The younger Lady Stark rose from her bed, quickly making use of the chamber pot before going to the basin and washing her face. Mini lay sleeping in her cradle, the little wooden rattle her royal grandfather had given her, tucked against her side. It quickly became Mini's favorite thing to chew on. More than once, Grey Wind had tried to nibble on it as well, and every time Mini would pull it away, as though the rattle was hers and hers alone.

The princess wished her father were here. She wondered if the king's domineering presence would have shaken Robb and Catelyn out of their odd behaviour as she hadn't been able to. Father had always been able to make people do things, as he was the king and it was treason to deny him what he wanted. But alas, father was not here, and would not make everything all better for her.

As said, she'd thought Lady Catelyn's presence about the castle would make things easier, give them hope of the future being fairer, and it had, although Robb's sudden distance and Catelyn's detachment made he feel...quite...confused. And hurt. And it had come to incensed her.

Robb seemed well enough, given she saw less of him these days.

_Can his duties keep him warm? Can his responsibilities and scrolls give him pleasure? Can he find comfort from his books and charts? Do they make him happy, now?_ Anger and frustration flooding through her, she wretched the warm rag from her face and threw it down into the basin with a wet plop. Mini snorted and Sylvia stood still as the child settled again.

For three days, she slept and rose alone. For three days she'd been the quiet wife and left him be, thinking whatever troubled him would become too much, and soon he would come to her on his own. But now she grew frustrated, angry.

How could he shut her out like this? As though it were as easy as shutting the door? She was his wife, the princess of these Seven Kingdoms by birth, and she would not be ignored, not even by her husband. Especially since her husband had given her no explanation of what abhorrent thing she'd done, or what had happened to make him distant.

True, he still visited her and Mini, and they exchanged words when he did, but they were small and meaningless. It was all he gave her; his answers for more conversational topics were one-syllable and perfectly irritating. It was unlike him and she didn't know why he seemed so grim. So she'd tried to be patient, to be kind, to give him silent support.

The onyx haired woman knew he had responsibilities, and had never expected him to give her _all_ his time, as he'd never been able to. Lord of the north was a heavy title to bear, the region so large and vast with thousands of children to father and care for. But she'd readied herself for that, and had been prepared to see him ride off for weeks at a time on a campaign, always content in the knowledge he would return, enraptured to see her as she was to see him.

But he felt leagues off under the same roof, and the time she'd once been allotted had been slashed into a fraction. Her patience was running thin. She didn't want to wait for him for very much longer, not without explanation at least.

The heavy wooden door opened then, pulling her away from her thoughts, and Elane appeared with a tray of tasty breakfast in hand. Sylvia's empty belly grumbled with lust. Somehow that added to her mounting vehemence.

"Good morn, my lady." Elane greeted pleasantly once she'd set down the tray.

"Elane." She replied tersely, turning back to the cooling basin. The handmaid took up the robe thrown over the dressing screen and brought it to her lady. Sylvia slipped on the warm cotton, her arms shoving into the sleeves, and rubbed her frozen fingers together. "Have you seen my husband?"

"Yes, my lady. He is breaking his fast with Theon and little lord Rickon in the Great Hall." Elane sounded a bit more reserved now.

Sylvia scoffed, but said nothing and reached for her cup of tea in hopes of brightening after a good breakfast.

* * *

Ser Fredrik Ravenback was not a sleuth sort of man, not one accustomed to spying and listening in on matters whispered between a select few. But that did not mean he was immune to stumbling upon things he ought not to, things he wished he hadn't. He was, after all, a close servant to the Royal Family. He knew things about them that had never come to light outside the castle, dark things and ugly things that he wished he did not know himself.

Making his way from the kitchens where he'd rustled up a filling breakfast of boiled eggs, bread topped with jam, and a hefty wedge of cheese, Ser Fredrik swiftly made his way through the castle corridors to Lady Sylvia's chambers.

Since arriving at Winterfell years before, his services to Sylvia had waned, diminished as it was apparent that his charge was quite safe within the ancient walls of Winterfell. Never once had he drawn his sword for her in defence, and only a few select times had he been needed in ensuring her safety. These events had been only childhood turbulence, the common hurts growing children face. Still, he had kept his sword at ready until Sylvia married the Stark heir, where he then took up a position as an official member of the Stark guardsmen. He and Lord Stark had agreed to wait until Sylvia was wedded to end his long service to her.

He had never strayed far from Sylvia, however; their affection for one another kept him close. Thus, when the best skilled men in service to the Starks went south to protect Lord Eddard and his daughters, Ser Fredrik Ravenback remained in Winterfell. Lord Eddard didn't question it; he knew the former hedge knight cared deeply for Sylvia and had not pressured him to leave her.

Fredrik's duties had always lain with Sylvia, and although that time seemed done, he found he could not leave her when the opportunity was presented. The south was too hot, and he'd sampled enough southern women to satisfy his lust when he was younger. He did not covet the adventures of travel as he had in youth.

Winterfell was where he stayed, the roots he'd come to lay here remaining as they were, although sometimes he'd wondered if his time with Sylvia had finished long ago. Was he a sentimental old fool for staying?

He was glad for it now, certain that his staying had been his instincts guiding him straight. This recent business with the younger Stark boy— _Bran_ —had left a foul feeling churning in his gut and he would not have been happy in the south for knowing his little princess could be in danger. Since the very incident of the boy falling from the tower, Ser Fredrik had retaken his place behind Sylvia and her little girl—a threatening, foreboding shadow with a sword at ready.

The morning air was crisp and biting against his skin, nipping at his newly shaved face. He regretted shaving his beard—it had always kept his chin and neck warm, but the pretty kitchen wench he'd been keeping company hadn't liked it much when it chaffed her soft, delicate skin. He felt as bare as a boy now, although he'd been rewarded for his suffering with heated kisses. Gods, a man was no man without a good bit of scruff.

His brisk pace and distracted thoughts attributed to the sudden crash that came as he turned the last corner before Sylvia's chambers.

A startled and pained feminine cry rang through the air as Fredrick's armoured body rammed into her smaller, unprotected one. In a sudden fear of falling to the hard stones, she grabbed out, a hand clenching around the leather strap of his cloak, yanking and inadvertently pulling his body down onto hers.

"Oh!" came a strangled groan from below him. "Get—off! Before you— _crush me!"_ she wheezed. Fredrik pushed himself up onto his hands and looked down at the girl, noting the pale brown hair, and watering eyes blinking up at him and knew her at once. Elane! Sylvia's handmaid. He got to his feet hurriedly, with Elane letting out a great huff of relief.

"Apologies, young one." He offered a hand to her, which she took with a grateful huff. "I was worried to be late."

"L-lady Sylvia is still in her chambers. Her daughter has only just awoken." The maidservant provided. She rubbed her aching side, knowing she'd be sore and bruised by the time night came.

As the aged knight nodded in reply, his eyes cast to the floor, spotting a small neat square of off white among the black stones. He knelt to retrieve it, finding it to be a piece of folded parchment.

"Did you drop this?" he asked, holding up the square to her.

Elane's eyes bulged, her handmaid's instincts falling away as she reached out to snatch away the offending square. She tucked it behind her, as if the knight would reach for it again. Fredrik raised a brow and the maid rushed to give reason.

"For-forgive me, ser. But it is a letter f-for my sweetheart back in Casterly Rock. 'Tis a private thing. For his eyes only, you know." She explained hastily, her hands crunching the delicate letter in her hands.

"I didn't know you were literate." The knight remarked with narrowed eyes.

"I bought a children's book once. From the market back home. My mam taught me the letters." She explained. She still had that little book, worn and faded were its pages and pictures, but she would not part with it. It had been what her mother had used to teach her, and it was the only visible proof she had that her mother had taught her something worth knowing.

"Rare feat." He commented, the thoughtful look still creasing his brow. "I assume your sweetheart knows the words you write?"

"Y-yes ser." She wanted to tell the old man to leave her alone, that it was not his concern. But she refrained. "He's a scribe. He knows letters better than I ever could."

"Ah." He murmured. He fixed her with a stern look, one full of suspicion. It was one thing to have a literate high born, but quite another to have a literate servant. But she had a look about her of embarrassment, a pink tint to her cheeks that girls sometimes get when they are caught doing something unseemly with a lad. _Lovelorn_. Once or twice he'd seen the same look on Sylvia's face before she'd married the Stark heir. His brow softened. It would be foul to embarrass the girl further. "Well, girl. Better get on to the raven's tower. Don't want to keep your young man waiting."

He stepped aside for her, and Elane gave a grateful curtsey and rushed away, her secret letter clutched defensively in her hands.

Ser Fredrik brushed off the encounter, and proceeded on to Lady Sylvia's chambers where she fed—or at least tried to feed—her little girl some porridge.

"My dear Fredrik," Sylvia greeted with a small smile.

* * *

His lady mother left at the break of dawn, and he watched from the guard tower as the horses carrying her and Ser Rodrik, disappeared down the road leading south. She'd bid her two younger sons farewell as they slept, because if Rickon had woken to see her off, doubtlessly the child would scream and thrash and wail for her to stay with him. Robb himself knew that if such a thing had come to pass, his mother couldn't have continued on.

A heavy stone lay in his belly, a nagging feeling that was meant for men twice his age. He wanted to ride with them, wanted to march to King's Landing himself and demand answers from the king and his queen. But he also wanted to keep his mother and Ser Rodrik in the haven of the north, where he knew they could not be harmed.

He wished for his wife's arms and yet couldn't bring himself to go to her. Not just yet.

His mother had advised him to keep their suspicions of the royals from Sylvia. It was unsaid, but he knew their secret council—made up of himself, Ser Rodrik, Theon, Maester Luwin and his own lady mother—believed that if Sylvia had any inkling to their affairs, she would send the swiftest rider she could find down into King's Landing to warn the queen of their treason.

But such an act would result in the disgrace and ruin of his House, wouldn't it? Sylvia's father was king, but would he allow such heinous allegations to be made against his family without reckoning, no matter that his daughter bridged them together? To protect her family, would Sylvia risk the family she'd built? _No, of course not_ , he concluded. Such a deceit would hurt and endanger both him and Mini. No matter the outcome, Sylvia would never allow that to happen, especially to Minisa.

That didn't make him feel any better for his deceit.

_It's what is best,_ he thought as he descended the watchtower steps. His little brother deserved justice if there was anything traitorous in his falling. This is what he told himself when the tendrils of doubt flicked away at his resolve. _It's what is best, this cannot be swept away._

He found that he couldn't return to his chambers where his wife still slept, knowing she'd ask very difficult questions if he were to break his fast with her. So he made his way to the Great Hall where the head servants had their morning meals. He would go to her soon, confide in her as much as he dared, and hope she would not be too angry.

The sun was still rising above the hills when Rickon came rushing down to the Great Hall looking for his mother and his breakfast. At finding one but not the other, he turned to his big brother at the lord's chair at the dais, his blue eyes wide and questioning.

"Where's mother?" The masters of the household were quietly arriving behind Rickon, speaking lowly among themselves as they sidestepped the little lad.

To Robb's right, Theon ate and to his left, was an empty space reserved for Rickon. When Bran awoke, he would take Rickon's place, but for now, the youngest son of Eddard Stark happily filled it. At Robb's feet was his ever faithful Grey Wind who chewed on a meaty rabbit he'd caught before dawn.

Robb kept his face calm, although Rickon could easily see something stern in his jaw.

"Mother has gone to see Aunt Lysa." The lie felt bitter in his mouth as Rickon's eyes widened in disbelief, hurt welling as he processed the words. Around him, he could hear utensils hushing as the members of his household turned to stare at their young lord. Lady Catelyn had gone? Why should she have gone so suddenly, just when her mind had returned to her and as her son lay in the sickbed? Perhaps she was not yet sound of mind as they'd hoped.

Robb paid them no mind, his attention focused on his littlest brother. The boy blinked with slow realization. Grey Wind tore off a limb from his kill with a sound of raw flesh tearing from bone. "Mother _left me?_ Why? Why did she go to aunt?" the boy demanded. He looked like he might cry or stamp his feet. "Aunt doesn't need her!"

Robb took in a breath, his brow softening its hard lines. "Mother needs Lysa. She wished to pray in a proper sept, where it is warmer. Aunt Lysa needs mother as well." Even to his own ears, the explanation sounded cold. "She will be home soon." He said in a softer voice.

Since his mother had made plans to travel south—dagger in hand, heart full of suspicion and theories—she and Robb had compiled many things to tell the castle and the younger of her sons. By the end, Robb had told his mother to leave him to it. He would be the one to lie to Rickon, and he would uphold it. Better he find the easiest, kindest thing to say, when he would have to look upon his brother's face and speak it.

There was a pride in Rickon that had been inherited from both his parents, and Robb was glad for it as Rickon sped from the hall. Though he knew he deserved to, Robb did not wish to look upon Rickon's tear stained face. The young lord inclined his head to his best friend, the ward, Theon Greyjoy.

"Do you think it would have hurt him less if he'd known before hand?" He asked miserably, his words were illegible murmurs to the other men. It was not difficult to relay these words to Theon. Having known him for more than half his life, the Greyjoy ward had become a brother to Robb and he often sought his council.

Theon shrugged. "What good would that have done? Rickon couldn't have kept a secret, and it would have found its way to Lady Sylvia soon enough." _And she would have interfered_.

Robb said nothing. "I feel like a foul beast who has taken a child's mother away from him."

"Lady Stark would have gone with or without your leave." Robb did not answer. "You've done what is necessary to protect your House. Rickon will thank you one day."

"And my wife? She would never thank me for lying to her." He lamented.

For a moment, Theon said nothing, thinking on what to say before he answered. "Her family lied to yours." Theon said lowly, leaning his head closer to Robb's. "If her family is behind what happened, you would need to do a lot worse than lie to her." Theon reminded darkly. On the Iron Islands, a lying wife was weighed down with stones and thrown over the side of a ship, alive and breathing. _A fit punishment_ , he thought. Brutal but the Iron Islands were brutal places, the sea carving and refining its people just as it does to the rock on which they survived.

Yet the punishment did not appeal to him when he thought of it applied to a living and breathing woman. It did not give him joy to think of them struggling and screaming and pleading before being tossed overboard, and thinking of watching them sink into darkness. To put Sylvia Baratheon into that role appealed even less. He did not feel strongly enough about her to say he loved her, but she was his brother's wife, mother to Robb's daughter.

But they were not on Pike, or any island under Ironborn rule. They were on the greenlands, in the north, in Winterfell, where there was no sea and no ships. The northern way prevailed here, perhaps for the better.

Theon watched as Robb's eyes flashed; warm eyes suddenly colder than ice. The Ironborn ward didn't think that Robb had the mettle to administer justice, northern or otherwise, if it came to his beloved Sylvia. _She must be a wildcat in bed._

"Mind your tongue, Theon Greyjoy." Robb uttered in a dark voice. "She is my lady wife and you will not even hint at whatever you are thinking."

* * *

Sylvia had organized a perfect luncheon, if she said so herself. Meat pie, and berry tarts, fresh crusty bread and sweet jams, half a wheel of cheese and a juicy leg of lamb was spread out on the table, steamy and delicious. She'd asked the cooks to prepare it all, and had taken great care in preparing the spread.

She had not seen Lady Catelyn all day, and though she and the lady may not be on the best terms at the moment, that didn't mean they couldn't have a pleasant meal together. After all, she'd managed it when her family came to Winterfell. Mayhaps, this meal could prove a stepping stone to bridging the gap between them.

By midday, the meal was ready and Sylvia's belly churned anxiously. She hoped the lady did not spurn her invitation, especially when she'd planned it all so carefully. But she would not be hurt if she did, she _wouldn't_. A princess is not wounded so easily.

"Elane, go to my good-mother's chambers and ask her if she would join me for luncheon." Sylvia ordered as she settled into one chair at the table, Mini in her lap. The baby lightly slapped her little hands on the table, blowing raspberry and reaching for a pointy fork before her mother pushed it away.

Elane went.

Running her fingers through her daughter's black curls, Sylvia wondered if it would just be the two of them to finish off this tasty meal, Elane joining them when it was clear there would be plenty of leftovers. How humiliating, to be stood up by one's own mother-in-law, as though she was an mangy rat Lady Catelyn could not stand to see. She hoped that the lady accepted the invitation and gave not another excuse.

Catelyn had been lady to Winterfell for nearly twenty years, and Sylvia thought it most prudent to be on good terms with the lady so as to obtain wisdom those years of service was sure to have given.

When Elane returned she had an odd look upon her face, one which was quickly explained when she told her mistress of how Lady Catelyn's chambers were empty, and that she'd heard from two maids she'd passed, that she'd gone away, sent away by Robb or so they claimed.

"You base this on half heard gossip?" the lady asked her maid.

"I...no, Lady."

"Did you actually _look_ into the room?"

"No, my lady. I didn't think it proper."

There was no conceivable way the handmaid could be right. Lady Catelyn could not have gone—she was not cold enough to leave her younger sons when they so obviously needed her! Rickon especially! And to leave Winterfell, her home, where people still looked to her and not Sylvia as their liege lady— _no_ she would not have gone. It was not possible. Someone was mistaken, and she would see to this mistake herself.

Mini in her arms, Sylvia left her chambers for answers, Ser Fredrik in tow. When the elder lady's chamber door came to view, Sylvia lightly knocked and called out the woman's name, but was met with silence. _How rude Catelyn could be_ , she thought with growing unease.

Feeling a fool for remaining outside an empty chamber, Sylvia went, her legs kicking up her skirts with their brisk movements. She didn't know where she was going, but she would not return to her chambers where the evidence of her foolhardy endeavour sat uneaten.

The elder lady must be praying in the little sept, she thought hopefully. It would not be unusual to find her there, praying to Father and Mother both to spare her still ailing son and to protect her husband and children in the south. Yes, that was far more likely than the latter option.

"Gods be good, I wonder if any of the fools even bothered to look before they declared their lady missing." She murmured lowly so only her good knight would hear her. Such witless gossip servants amused themselves with, although she hardly saw the humour in this particular jape.

"In any case, no one's putting up a fuss over it." Ser Fredrik commented lightly.

The sept was empty, Septon Chayle telling her he hadn't seen Lady Catelyn since before Lord Eddard left. She checked Bran's room, the lady's solar and then Maester Luwin's laboratory before she ended her search. She felt a fool, running around chasing a shadow; she was a _princess_ , not a pageboy. Ugh, her horrid brother would mock her if he'd seen this. Hells, _everyone_ in the Capitol would laugh if they'd seen.

The pair of them walked quietly side-by-side, Ser Fredrik's arms full of Sylvia's daughter as his lady's arms had gotten tired under the babe's weight. The babe was familiar enough with him that she did not mind being held by the old knight, a very sociable baby she was. For Sylvia, she clutched her hands around each other, a sure sign she was thinking intent, vigorous thoughts. The child in his arms babbled quietly, blissfully unaware of her mother's troubles.

The princess walked in silence, a tumult of emotion bubbling inside her, once or twice threatening to boil over as the cold realization came: Lady Catelyn had gone, her husband having kept the news from her. There was no conceivable way Lady Catelyn could have made the arrangements for travel without alerting Robb. If the lady had even sneaked off, Robb would not have hesitated to ride out and bring her back to the safety of Winterfell, therefore causing great panic and fuss.

There was an anger which moved her feet faster and narrowed her vision. How on heaven and earth could she have left, _now_ of all times? She'd condemned her husband for doing so, and had turned and done the exact same. And Robb! He had let her _go?!_ He kept such vital reports from her, and for what reason? To exercise his right as her husband and lord to do so? To keep her inquiries silent?

She intended to find out, and did not wish her daughter to witness such a scene. Never would a child of hers see such awfulness between her parents. She ordered Fredrik to the kitchens, where one of the serving women would ensure Mini was fed and entertained, while her dear old knight kept watch. If she saw Elane before she reached her destination, she would order her to tend to Mini.

When she burst through Robb's new solar doors, she felt a delicious sense of satisfaction when Robb jumped. But it did nothing to recede the wroth bubbling forth. The door shut harshly behind her, and all of a sudden, words came forth without much thought, as though her rage had planned it all out without her calm and conscious thought being aware.

"I must hear that our liege lady has fled the castle from a _handmaid!?"_

He stood and set the book he was reviewing down, eyeing her evenly. "I had hoped you to hear it from me."

She continued as she had not heard him. "And then go searching for answers all throughout the castle like a bloody simpleton?!"

Her husband's brows twitched. "I did not force you. Had you wanted straight answers, you should have come to me."

Her ears reddened. She hadn't thought of that, but damned if she admitted that. "And hear _what?_ Fragmented answers and excuses?" distressed, she crossed the room, walking around her husband so her back was to the brazier, and his was towards the door.

"The truth." He replied shortly.

"' _Truth'_?" she huffed. "Rickon and Bran need her! Although Bran surely cannot notice her, Rickon certainly _can_! _That_ is the truth." Sylvia was afraid of being forced into mothering two boys who had one already, one who should be doing the job.

"Rickon is seven, on his way to manhood quickly; other boys his age are fostered miles from home for years."

"Just becomes _other_ boys deal with worse separation, does not mean he is affected the same way. He has never been _fostered_. He doesn't understand separation like this from both his mother and father at once, and he _did not_ expect this. It is cruel of both of you to throw this at him when he'd just gotten his mother back!" she seethed. By the end, her voice had risen from steady sureness to yelling. She didn't like screaming matches, having heard them far too often as a child, but something inside her couldn't be stopped. For the briefest moment, she was appalled with herself, tiny pricks of fear sliding like icicles into her veins.

Its affect was immediate, for Robb's stern face hardened further, his own ire rising in his eyes.

"Sylvia!" she shut her mouth, some deeply engrained lesson telling her to shut up. "Mind yourself. It is cruel to demean my mother so—she's had her fair bit of hurt." Sylvia looked away, regret swelling in her belly. The woman had been bereaved, and to be reminded of how she had been not long ago stalled her wrath but did nothing to quell it entirely.

Suddenly, it was overwhelmingly obvious that there was nothing to be done about the lady's leaving, and her shoulders slumped. Robb did not seem inclined for her to come back, and if he could have been persuaded to retrieve the woman, where could they look? There were many back roads she could have taken, and twice as many travelers along them.

He saw her defeat, and gentled his voice a little. "My mother has gone to be with her sister, my aunt Lysa. Rickon knows this." Robb continued.

"And you think knowing where she is will console him? Or Bran, when he wakes up?" she asked dejectedly. Sylvia pitied poor Rickon. When she was separated from her own family, she'd been older, had expected and prepared herself for it for months. Rickon had probably had no warning, and he was just a boy. She crossed her arms. "This was horribly abrupt, Robb."

"It could not be helped." Was all he said.

"Sure it could have." She replied, turning her sharp eyes to him. "You could have told me. I could have _helped_ somehow."

He scoffed. "You would have done everything you could to keep her here, I know it."

"And why would that have been so terrible?" she asked. "Rickon is only _seven_ and as I understand it, you gave him no warning just as you did to me." He sighed and looked away, seeming ashamed. "Gods, Robb, give me your reasoning behind this!"

"I can't."

"You wouldn't have done this without just cause! _Why_ have you allowed her to leave?" she demanded.

"Because she needed to." He answered with a withering glare. "What else do you want me to _say_ , Sylvia? I'm sorry." the harshness of his voice didn't make him sound sorry. "I'm _sorry_. I know it's devastating to Rickon and Bran both—do you think I am so heartless not to see that?!" she blinked at his sudden anger, stepping back out of instinct. "Do you think it was _easy_ for me to see her ride away? _Gods."_ he sighed harshly, his hands coming to rest on the back of the chair he'd been sitting on. His knuckles whitened with their grip and he looked away from her.

"And yet you _let_ her." An older anger surfaced, one that had been put away long ago. "You wouldn't even _consider_ traveling south to visit _my_ family!"

"This _isn't about us_ , Sylvia!" he whirled back to face her, his hand slashing through the air, but not towards her. He would never strike her.

"It never is. You kept me out of it and shunned me like a child you'd rather not explain things to."

"Now I remember why." He muttered darkly. Sylvia's nostrils flared, the only outward sign his words had hit their mark.

"I never imagined you cruel." She spat. " _You_ be the one to explain this to Bran," when the boy's name was uttered, Robb turned away in disgust. There was a perverse sense of satisfaction in knowing her claws had sunk in where it would hurt most. "I pray you find courage to face the boys after playing the innocent lamb!" she called out as he made for the door. The woman flinched as the loud bang resounded through the chamber as her husband stormed out.

* * *

A while later, (and feeling a bit calmer), Sylvia went to Rickon. It was the right thing to do, to offer comfort to the lad, but the black shadow that was Shaggy Dog was guarding the door. The wolf's growls halted her movements, and she dared not test the mongrel's restraint by attempting to pass him. So she backed away, and left them alone.

Her heart beat slowly in wake of the argument, her thoughts coming slower as she thought it over, analysing every cutting remark exchanged, torn between renewing her wrath and weeping. She bit both feelings back and continued on, to retrieve her baby girl.

The urge to cry grew stronger as she inhaled Mini's sweet baby scent, felt her tiny hands gripping at the fabric of her dress and pulling her hair without restraint. But Mini wouldn't see her cry, ever. She didn't want to retreat to her chambers just yet, not wanting to encounter Robb there when they were both so raw yet. With trepidation, she made her way to the sickroom.

The guards greeted her cordially, and she returned the greeting with a stiff nod. Inside, sitting by the bed with her own child in her lap, Sylvia watched Bran breathe, each slow breath raising his chest. She could not think about what would happen when he awoke—he _would_ awaken, of that she was certain. She pitied the poor child, for what child deserved this?

It wasn't long before she ached to leave. The silence was endless, each moment filling her with dread and sadness. She could understand how a woman could be driven to the brink sitting alone in here, hour after hour. Looking at Bran, even doubtful thoughts prodded. Before, once or twice while visiting him when Catelyn had continued her vigil, she'd wondered if her father's idea about lame horses had some tiny particle of truth to it. But Bran was a _little boy_ , and he must really want to live if he'd survived the fall.

She retreated from the sickroom soon after.

Thankfully, Robb was not there when she and Mini arrived back to their chambers and he did not come for the rest of the night as well. When she crawled into bed alone later that night, she found that sleep eluded her, and she remained awake, staring at the dimly lit wall in front of her, listening to the tiny cracks of the low fire, and her daughter's sleeping breath.

_How could their mother leave them?_ she wondered heavily. _Bran who had been near death and Rickon who is but a babe._ _How could Robb have let her leave?_

Now that it was quiet, with Mini sleeping, Elane gone, and the work of the day put aside for now, she could think and sort out this mess as best she could.

They'd said awful things to each other, her and Robb. _She'd_ said awful things. Had she been wrong in that? He'd been hurt, leaving before she could spit more at him. She'd hurt her love, she thought dully. The knowledge weakened her hold on her anger, because she'd never wanted to hurt Robb.

But she was _hurt!_ _Robb_ , with his lies and sneaking, had hurt her. He hadn't trusted her to tell her what he'd planned, he had been able to _look her in the face_ and not show the slightest hint of deceit. He'd been distant, but hadn't let on why. She had the creeping realization that he had been so vague the last few days was because he'd been planning for Catelyn's departure.

And in return, she'd used his brothers' poor feelings to hurt him and remind him of the consequences of what he'd helped do. It was a big bloody mess she didn't understand.

The stone wall blurred as her eyes burned with tears. She let them fall, alone in the dark with no one to see her.

A few more salty droplets fell when the door softly squeaked open, light from the corridor streaking across the room in orange beams. She closed her eyes, and listened as Robb undressed for bed. Although she knew her husband well enough to know he wouldn't pick a fight now, her body refused to unclench.

The bed dipped when he crawled under the blankets, and her heart, although wounded, found a sense of contentment to know he was beside her. A little part of her wanted to turn towards him, to look at him and see if there was any anger left in his face or if there as anything remorseful. But she feared there wouldn't be anything apologetic in his expression, or worse, that he'd still have lingering animosity in his eyes.

Eventually sleep found her, and her worries fell away as her dreams surfaced, familiar and old and new and strange, dancing before her eyes.


	17. Hanging On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftermath of a fight, smut and the beginning of a new one.

**Chapter 14: Hanging On**

_I just don't know what is wrong_   
_with you and me_   
_Touch me and then turn away_   
_Cause I don't wanna be a ball and chain, nooo_

_Hanging On_ \- Ellie Goulding

A few days later, daylight found Sylvia in a happier mood, at least with Mini. She could always be happy when her baby smiled up at her like she made the sun rise each morning, and hung the stars at night. So for Mini she smiled and pretended she wasn't angry.

Sitting in her chair, in the chamber which overlooked the vast godswood, Sylvia held Mini in her arms while Rickon ran up and down the length of the room. He told her he was practicing his running, so when he was faster, he could keep up with Shaggy. He was melancholy all morning and had been ever since his mother left, hardly speaking, never smiling. The poor child was missing the warmth of his mother, and the steadying presence of his father, sisters and base-born brother.

So many people had left them already, making Catelyn's desertion that much more painful. And Robb's hand in it that much worse.

Thus, if running the length of the room made Rickon happy, she was more than happy to put up with it. The room was big and long enough for it, designed for large meetings with multiple northern lords, the high ceilings opening at the top into small, narrow windows, where pale light shone in. It was long enough to demand four braziers to keep the heat, benches pushed against all four walls, with direwolf tapestries hanging from the rafters.

The princess smiled at her little girl, worming her fingers through the layers of linen and wool to fish out a tiny pink foot. She kissed it, feeling the little toes curl against her lips. Mini grinned up at her, tiny white teeth flashing, enough light to brighten the world in her beautiful blue eyes.

She kissed the foot again, blowing raspberries into the delicate skin, and making the babe giggle sweetly. Sylvia adored these small moments, the time she spent simply playing with her baby, being silly and strengthening the bond between them.

A deep part of her wondered if she was a soft womanly fool for showing such love so openly, if it made her look weak. But Mini was the stars lighting the dark night, the part of her and part of Robb combined into one, merging them together into something stronger than chains or ice, something profound and everlasting. Something so natural and deep couldn't have been weakness, could it? Oftentimes, when her thoughts wandered to this, she thought it better left unanswered.

"You have such a pretty smile," she cooed to the baby. Letting out another screeching giggle, Mini reached up and pulled on her mother's hair. Sylvia planted another kiss to the bottom of the babe's soft foot, once more feeling her tiny toes curl against her mouth. "Such pretty little toes, too." She mumbled against the toes. "Say mama. Mama. Ma-ma. Ma-ma-ma-ma." She had no care of whom saw her, because the only other person in the hall was Ser Fredrik. What did it matter if he saw her be silly? He'd seen it all a thousand times—she'd been about three when he came to her and had seen her through countless embarrassments and never once made some cutting remark to shame her.

The distinct sound of booted feet echoed off the walls and Sylvia looked up, wondering who was coming to disturb the contentment they'd found. Her smile faded at seeing who came through the threshold, his direwolf trotting at his side with its red tongue lolled out.

As she tucked Mini's little foot back into her coverings, Rickon ceased his running for the moment to say hello to his big brother. There was a smile on the child's face that he would not show to her, one that only Robb could muster from the boy.

From that, Sylvia knew the little wolf didn't blame Robb for their mother's departure. He never looked at him with anger or hate or betrayal, and if he had, it hadn't lasted long. No, Rickon's eyes still brightened to see his big brother, as though he'd done nothing devious.

Sylvia, however, was not so blinded. She could never be, had never found it in her to roll away when someone took a stab at her. She was far more inclined to stand up and stab back, and she had done. Her love for Robb made her wish she hadn't jabbed such a tender spot, though.

"Robb! Look how fast I am! I can almost catch up with Shaggy, I think." The boy huffed breathlessly.

"Fantastic," The lord of the north commented as Rickon quickly darted about the room to show him. "You'll have to run beside Shaggy Dog to know if you're as fast as him."

"I would, but Sylvie won't let him in here." The little wolf whined. Sylvia pursed her lips, her toes clenching inside her boots. Would Robb allow the creature in here? As if sensing the brewing storm, Mini reached up to her mother's face, her sharp baby nails scratching at her cheek.

"There isn't room enough in here. Try the godswood." Robb concluded with a grin at the boy. Needing no more encouragement, Rickon sped from the room, biding them farewell as an afterthought. The princess stood from her chair and made to follow him, because she did not want to remain here with Robb alone. Mini's presence would subdue him for whatever he had to say that would be sharp and barbed, and it would do the same for her. Even if he wasn't looking for a fight, she didn't wish to risk one.

She was too raw yet; never having gotten what she thought was a suitable explanation for his lies.

"Sylvia," he spoke gently. "Stay. Please."

She turned to him, her face a mask of perfect genialness. "What is it?"

His lips twitched into a wry smile. "I know what you're doing. Being all sweet after a hell of a row. I know you don't mean it. I know you're still angry."

Her face didn't falter in the slightest. "Yes I am still _cross_ at you. But I'd rather not argue in front of our daughter."

"We don't have to scream at each other to work things out."

Finally, her face wavered, the mask warmth draining from her face and revealing the thunder cloud in her grey eyes. "You make it sound as if I want to fight. I don't. I hate to."

" _As do I._ So stay with me, talk with me a while. I miss you."

Temptation pulled from her belly, making her wish to follow the pull and settle back into his arms, and to let the world be set aright. She missed him and she dearly wanted to. She missed the way his voice would flow over her like a crisp, fresh wave, making her feel awake and alive and content and soothed all at once. She missed the way his hand would find hers sometimes, the way he'd twine their fingers. She missed the way he'd laugh with her, the way he'd feel beside her, the way he made her happy.

But her heart still gnawed on by his coldness and deceptions. He'd lied to her, and perhaps she could overlook it if he gave her an explanation as to why his mother left, and why he'd let her do. "Because she had to" was not enough for her—not when Rickon began to throw things just to see them break, or when he wailed for reasons he didn't understand.

"If I stay, will you tell me why you kept so many secrets from me?" she asked.

"I already have!" he grumbled impatiently. "I told you where my mother is gone, and I told you why I didn't tell you. Is that not enough for you?" Gods, why couldn't they let this go already? Catelyn was gone, and there was no changing it now. It made him feel all the worse to know his wife refused to have a real conversation with him, while his little brother reverted back to the tantrums he'd thrown when he was four.

"You miss my meaning." She said, an edge creeping into her voice. Mini cooed in her mother's arms, reminding her to keep her voice calm and even. "I would have liked to be included, not kept in the dark, left to hear from _servants_ what my _husband_ planned. Robb, your choices don't only affect you. If I'd been privy to your plans, maybe you could have seen that." _Maybe if I had, Rickon wouldn't be less a mother as well as a father._

"I do see it." He replied sternly. "Every day I see it. Every choice I make—every choice my family makes—I see the power it holds."

"Do you? I was here, ready to give you council, and yet you turned from me."

"No matter what you said, it would not have changed the outcome." He countered gently. Truly, nothing she said would have changed his or his mother's mind, and so he'd saved them both the trouble of her knowing and fighting a battle that never even began.

She was quiet; her eyes leveling him with a steady gaze that made him feel like the worst sack of shit ever to stand before her. Suddenly the mask was back up and she gave him a grin.

"With your leave, my husband." She bowed her head. "My chores call to me." She said softly before she walked from the chamber, his daughter peeking over her shoulder with wide blue eyes.

He didn't call out for her again. He would give her until tonight, before he tried again. If it meant an argument, so be it. Her angry words he could take. Her silence, he could not.

Grey Wind watched her retreating back with a strange kind of longing, his tail twitching with anticipation. "Go," Robb ordered. "Go with them. Keep them safe." The direwolf went, trotting a short distance from his wife and child.

* * *

He was talking with the stonemason in the yard when Bran's nameless direwolf shot through the mud, splattering muck on their legs as it dashed by. Something pulled inside Robb. Bran's wolf was always so calm and gentle, only running through the godswood when he hunted and played with his brothers. The only other time Robb had seen him speed through the yard, was when Bran had been running ahead of him.

Why did the wolf dash through Winterfell now? Did he sense something? Did he know something Robb's dull human senses did not perceive? Was it Sylvia? Was it Mini? Was it one of the boys? Robb gave a hasty farewell to the mason before jogging after the animal.

The nameless pup ducked into the archway leading to the Great Keep with Robb coming just behind him, his boots skittering over the stone floor as he tried to keep upright. The direwolf ran up the steps, Robb following him two at a time. It was as if the pup was being led to its destination, or it knew exactly where it was headed. It never paused, or gave sniff to the air. By the time Robb followed it to the highest landing in the tower, he knew where the wolf was running.

The nameless wolf arrived at the sickroom's door, and used its small, but mighty forepaws to shove open the wooden door with a bang, while the guards posted outside the door reached for their swords on instinct. But they did nothing else but stare into the room in awe. Robb skidded to a stop at the archway, the guards watching on from behind him.

On the bed, one hand tangled in the direwolf's fur, was Bran. Only he wasn't sleeping any longer; he looked up at them with a face as calm as a spring day, his eyes blue pools of pond water. Disbelief clouded Robb's eyes, and only later would he realise it was tears.

Bran didn't seem to notice because he only said, "His name is Summer." And he pat the wolf on its head.

* * *

The joyful news spread throughout the halls and crevices of Winterfell in frenzy, excitement and relief in the chatter, ravens already being sent far and wide to tell their lord in the south that his son was awake. It was the news they'd all hoped and prayed for, finally come to reality. Servants whispered amongst themselves and wondered if the Lady of the castle would come back now that her son was awake.

At once, the maester was fetched to the sickroom, and began an assessment of the child as his elder brother waited anxiously outside. Robb had been ordered out by Maester Luwin, in case there was anything the matter with Bran, he didn't need interference. Robb was not bothered much; unrestrained joy glowed from his chest, and he could not keep the smile from his face. He wanted to burst into the room, pull his brother up and shout and laugh just for the fact that Bran had opened his eyes at last.

The last month's fear and wonders of "what-if's" mattered no longer. So elated was the young lordling, that he momentarily forgot what had put his brother in that bed. He forgot for just a moment that his wife's family may have been responsible; he forgot Bran had been pushed. He forgot his suspicion and his fears in the face of overwhelming relief and joy.

But when the moment was over, he remembered duty and honour, and knew, (at least a little), that he would have to ask Bran some very...difficult questions soon enough. Questions whose answers could brew more conflict, and put this long time of peace into peril.

He stood alone outside Bran's chambers, after having sent the guards away to fetch his wife and youngest brother. Rickon, however, was running through the godswood with Shaggy, so it would be a while before someone caught up to him. He had just begun to pace when he heard delicate booted footsteps echo down the corridor.

He heard her speak before he turned to greet her, his insides flopping excitedly when he saw her rushing towards him, a wide smile on her lips and glee bright in her eyes. All he felt in seeing her was happiness, as though all the worries of life had lifted from his shoulders.

Sylvia practically skipped down the corridor, a laugh rolling out of her throat, her white mink fur cloak alluding to the fact she'd been outside when the guards came for her.

"Is it true? Bran's awake?" she asked excitedly as she drew closer.

Instead of answering her, he strode towards her, and engulfed her in his arms, lifting her feet off the ground as he spun her around, holding her tight against him. He heard her laugh again, and felt her hands clutch his shoulders.

As he held his wife against him, her flowery smelling hair filling his nose, it suddenly struck him how much he'd actually _missed_ her these past few days. She was right here and he'd _missed_ her, as daft as it sounded. But it had been impossible to be close to her, since his mother left, because she was "cross" with him as she'd put it.

"He's awake." He mumbled into her shoulder. He heard her gasp breathlessly and clutch at his shoulders tighter.

When he set her down again, she beamed up at him, little wells of joy in her blue eyes. "He's awake." She laughed tearfully. He smiled back at her, when her hands suddenly left his shoulders, and settled in his hair, her fingernails scratching lightly against his scalp as she pulled his face down to hers. Their lips met with a similar kind of urgency, their days of fighting and the unexpected surprise of Bran waking up, making the kiss all the sweeter.

When she pulled away, she was breathless, but smiled softly at him while her fingers played with the ends of his hair. Then she gave him a curious look.

"What are we doing out here, then?" she asked, sidestepping him and making to pull him with her into the sickroom. He stopped her with a firm but gentle hand.

"Maester Luwin is assessing him. He needs the room with Bran." He explained, happiness still painted across his face with that boyish grin. It dimmed a little when he looked back down at their joined hands. "When he finishes, I will speak to him. Alone." She frowned at him, question in her ocean blue eyes. "I want to ask him what happened on the tower." He said solemnly.

"And you think I am too delicate to hear?" she asked incredulously, a brow raised.

"No. It's him I don't want to frighten. With just him and me, he could give me clearer answers." Her eyes softened. "And I can tell him about our parents myself." He added a little ruefully, and then her eyes turned down, her gaze resting on their joined hands, too ashamed to look at him.

"I am sorry I said that. It was cruel." His wife apologized, recalling the way he'd stormed away from her when she spat that he be the one to tell the boys of their mother's sudden abandonment. Robb was silent, because it was hurtful, and he wouldn't say it wasn't. "I know you aren't pleased that Catelyn left and I know you _hate_ what it's done to Rickon."

He'd deceived her in the first place, so were they even now? Robb didn't want to keep a tally, and in light of all the good things happening now, he thought they could let it go.

"Forgive me, please." She whispered.

Instead of speaking, he rested his forehead against hers, their breaths merging together as the small gesture sealed their forgiveness. His hand reached up to stroke through her hair, fingers catching in the braids woven into the dark locks.

Sylvia gave a shaky sigh, her hands once more coming to rest on his cheeks, her palms itching from his growing beard. "He's awake. Gods, I prayed for this; nearly every day." She'd even forgone the sept once, and joined him and Rickon in the godswood. They'd sat before the heart-tree and were quiet, listening for hidden messages from the Old Gods in the rustle of the trees in the wind, the trickle of water, and in the movement of animals far off. They sought peace, and comfort, and for Robb and Rickon, they had found it. Sylvia, who scarcely understood the Old Gods, had been quiet and respectful, but hadn't returned to the godswood for prayer since.

"I as well." He replied softly.

And despite what every instinct said to the contrary, all their prayers had been answered. Sylvia's father had been _wrong_. Her mother had been _wrong_. Horrible, cruel, wretched Joffrey had been _wrong_.

Bran was alive.

* * *

Soon enough, the creak of the door opening pulled their attention to the maester emerging from the sickroom, a spark of joy in his always serene face. He closed the door gently and turned to the couple with a soft, relieved smile.

"He is whole, as far as I can tell. He knows his name, knows his family, knows where he is, knows his sums." He chuckled briefly. "He is...asking for his mother and father though. I haven't told him." Maester Luwin relayed. Robb nodded, his face frozen with relief and happiness and dread.

Robb made to move to the door, but Maester Luwin's gentle voice stopped him. "My lord," he looked up at Robb, a grave look overtaking the relief in his face. "There is something else. He...he cannot feel below his waist. I believe the fall has taken his ability to walk."

Bran loved to run, and climb, and ride and...he couldn't feel below his waist? Seven hells, oh Bran. Poor, innocent, sweet little Bran.

They'd been told that the fall had broken his legs—that he may never be the same if he were to wake. But his legs had healed while he was asleep, and they all thought that was that. They'd been so afraid he wouldn't even wake up that they'd forgotten what it might mean if he lived. That he might be different.

Bran, who had been so lively and active—the boy who _lived_ to climb—would never do so again. He'd never walk, never climb, never ride a horse, never...achieve his dreams and become a member of the King's Guard. He'd never know the pleasure of being with a woman, and would never father children of his own. It was gone from him—a whole life was gone from him.

Her father had spoken of lame horses; about how badly hurt children should get the same "mercy" as a lame horse. His words seemed even crueler now, and shame for her father swelled inside her, as anger at her mother for agreeing with him began to squeeze at her insides. They'd had no hope for Bran, no kind words of comfort to say to their eldest daughter, and had all but condemned the child dead in their private quarters.

But Sylvia had lied for them in public. They hadn't asked her to, but she would not walk through Winterfell, telling everyone of the king and queen's pitiless words if she were asked. In some strange way, it was expected of her. A princess upholds her family's honour. So instead, the southern princess told tales of courteous empathy from her father and prayers for health from her mother. That was what the kingdoms believed their king and queen to be—courteous and hopeful. And it disturbed her to know them differently.

The lie was prettier than the truth.

"Will he ever regain feeling?" Robb asked evenly. He was too shocked to manage anything but a steady sentence.

"It...it has been heard of. But I will not advise you to hope." The maester said mournfully.

How would Bran live now? Would he live happily? Fully? This felt very much too big, and once more, Robb wished for his father to come, to show him what to do, to say the right thing. But father was leagues away, and here, Robb was a man and people looked to him for strength.

Bran was alive; praise all the gods for that miracle and the rest could come later.

He looked to Sylvia, whose watery eyes were still fixed on the maester with a hand touched to her lips to hold back whatever threatened to come out. "He's alive," he reminded softly. "That's all that matters." It took a moment for his words to reach her, when her eyes left the maester to settle on the floor, nodding a little to show that she'd heard him. He felt her tremble and gave her hand a steady squeeze, before stepping forward, past Maester Luwin and his wife, and into the room.

* * *

First seeing Bran lying there in his bed, it was almost like nothing was different. Of course he knew everything had changed, and that life would never really be as it was, but he could remember a hundred other times when he'd come to see Bran and found him in the same position he was in now. It was familiar and it squeezed his heart in a vice when he remembered how their world had changed the moment Bran decided to climb the Broken Tower.

Bran wept when he learned of their parents' departure.

He cried to know that his father, sisters and half-brother had gone just after he was hurt, and now resided half a world away. He cried to know his mother had left only _days_ ago, and that no one knew when she would be back from her sister's dwelling.

It cut him deep to see Bran like this, but he would not let it show. Bran had a right to weep, but Robb did not. He'd helped his mother leave and perhaps if she were here, it would ease the pain yet to come when Bran learned the whole truth about his legs. But in the midst of confused, teary questions about where their family was, he found he could not bear to tell his brother about the damage the fall had done to his body.

_Not now anyway_ , he'd thought.

But Bran was clever, and after the tears had faded, he punched his thigh in anger. "I can't feel it." he said, rather calmly. Robb didn't say anything, and so he did it again and again, harder and harder, until Robb held his arm back.

Even then, the boy had fought. Bran grunted and struck out, and pushed his elder brother, until the fight had gone out of him, until he fell against Robb's chest and clung to him. Robb was the eldest of his father's children, and was the one person Bran trusted most in this moment. There were no more questions, no more fighting, no more tears for a long while, and Robb forgot that Rickon was probably waiting outside, going out of his head with anticipation.

"When will mother be back?" Bran asked against his brother's shoulder a while later.

Robb paused. "I do not know." On the bed, Bran's wolf— _Summer_ —gave a low whine, and affectionately bumped his head against Bran's arm, as though attempting to give comfort. The child ran his hand over the direwolf's neck, his fingers scratching at his fur.

"Bran," Robb eventually asked as he pulled away. He looked down at his brother, his face gentle, but his eyes hardened with a silent plea for answers in the blue eyes their mother gave them.

Slowly, Robb asked the boy about that day on the tower, what he remembered, what had caused him to fall, but Bran said he didn't remember. He remembered the climb, as he made it a hundred times before. He remembered the view; he remembered his wolf watching him from the base. Then he remembered nothing else.

"What happened?" the boy asked softly.

"We found you at the base. We thought you fell." Robb replied carefully.

"It's probably true." The boy murmured dejectedly. Although he wanted to ask more, the young Lord of Winterfell felt this was not the time, and let the matter end. Bran had endured enough for today.

So he opened the door to the sickroom, and let Rickon and Shaggy Dog on him, and hoped silently that the pair would get Bran to smile. Shaggy jumped up on the bed, quickly followed by Rickon, though he struggled with his short legs to climb up. Shaggy laid down over Bran's deadened legs, and gave Summer a gentle nip to his flank in greeting. The normally wild and undomesticated wolf was behaving rather tamely, which pleased Robb greatly.

"Bran! Bran!" Rickon squealed in delight. This should have been the greeting Bran awoke to: one full of happiness and relief and he hated more than anything that it had to be this way. More than anything he wished he could change it, fix it somehow. But he couldn't. He was only man. So he could only stand by and hope Rickon could lift his spirits before they soared too low.

When Rickon finally scrambled onto the bed, and then engulfed his elder brother in his skinny arms, Bran returned the embrace, his face screwing up against Rickon's shoulder. "I knew you'd wake up! I just knew!"

Slowly, Sylvia walked through the door a soft smile on her face when she spied Bran. She had never been as close to Bran as she'd been to dear sweet Sansa, but she'd cared for him as much as she did for Sansa. And now here he was, awake, talking and moving after she'd started to believe her parents' grim assessments.

The rest of their visit was rather short. They spoke softly to Bran—besides Rickon, who jabbered excitedly about everything he'd missed the past few weeks. It wasn't long until Bran began yawning and his eyes began drooping and so they'd decided to leave him to rest, but not before sipping a little bit of warm broth to quell the ache of hunger.

Robb ordered Maester Luwin to remain with him through the night, along with Rickon who had refused to leave his brother's side. Rickon had said he was afraid that if he left his brother, Bran would suddenly go away again, and not come back again.

Robb's worry matched his younger brothers', for Maester Luwin remained due to the fear that if Bran slept again, he would not wake. The maester agreed, but also told Robb that the possibility of that happening was as likely as a direwolf being found in Dorne.

* * *

Winterfell was home, but the godswood was a guaranteed solace.

To Robb, the castle felt like a cage; everywhere he looked, he was reminded that his brother was broken, and that his wife's family may have caused it. Every corner held memory, every stone step held meaning, every tapestry had laughter and whispers. So he looked to the godswood for freedom, his wolf running through the trees somewhere far off.

He stopped at the heart-tree, regarding its carved face, the eyes weeping bloody tears of red sap. It was here he and his siblings played and laughed, where he first kissed Sylvia, where he said his vows to her, where they brought Minisa to grace her with her name before the eyes of gods and men.

This place was rife with memories; none of them bad. The gods watched through the bloody eyes, and so this was where northerners went to for peace and left with cleared minds.

He stopped before the black hot spring, ignoring the upturned log, because he was too tense to sit.

The young lord's mind swirled round and round with unanswered questions and frustration. He'd hoped the mess of Bran's fall would be settled when Bran woke up. He'd heard that the boy's mind might have been destroyed upon impact with the hard ground, but he'd never truly considered the possibility of that happening. Bran was alive, after one and possibly two failed assassinations, but he could offer nothing to explain _why_ someone wanted him dead.

Just as Bran was drifting off to sleep, the maester, Robb and Sylvia had met outside the door to discuss all they had discerned. All Robb could say was "He doesn't remember." Maester Luwin had said he could remember in the coming days, so he would ask in three days time.

After the visit, he climbed the raven's tower and sent birds farther north and far south, carrying the news of Bran's awakening to Jon, and his father and sisters. It would be long before the bird's message reached them, but he hoped the news reached his father before his mother did. He knew his mother was no fool, but she had gone to the Capitol looking for justice, and he feared what or who she would step on to obtain it.

Behind him, a twig snapped underfoot, and he turned to see his wife walking towards him, the setting sun casting her body in shadow.

"Still stealthy." He grinned at her.

"Stealthier than _you_." She shot back, though she knew it probably wasn't true. Sword fighting requires stealth, though, to be fair, so does dance.

She stopped a little ways away, her gloved hands folding together under her breasts. She had no wish to disturb him when he sought solace with the gods, but she wanted to be near him. All the children were settled down to sleep, with Elane watching her little girl as Maester Luwin watched the boys. She wanted to feel him next to her after so many days of coldness between them. She would lay down her anger if he forgave her for grabbing and twisting where he was weak. Part of her feared he would reject her offer, but she could not care for that now.

Tonight they could be happy that Bran was alive _._

"Praying?" she asked, nodding to the eerie face carved into the tree. She had always found the weeping face to be a little strange—even a little frightening when she'd been a girl. Once or twice when she was new to the north, she'd snickered at the tree gods in secret, finding the idea of them so daft and strange. She stilled her tongue as she grew, because this was the north, and the Old Gods reigned here and would for a thousand more years.

He sighed softly, casting a look back at the weirwood. "No. Thinking."

"And?" she inquired as she stepped forward, her arms eager to wrap around his body and hold him close.

The lordling paused a moment. "He doesn't remember." He murmured.

Oh. That again.

When he revealed the boy had no memory of the fall earlier, she hadn't been very much upset. Bran had fallen—his hand slipped or his foot stumbled, and he'd fallen. What good was it if he couldn't remember? In fact, maybe it was better he didn't. If he didn't remember the fall, he wouldn't remember the terror of that moment, or the pain that followed. But for whatever reason, this upset her husband. She had a thought that he was afraid Bran wouldn't remember other things in the coming days; that he would lose himself.

"He remembers the climb, but nothing else."

"It could come back to him in a few days." She offered. Finally, her arms slipped around him from behind, her gloved hands settling under his cloak against his abdomen. Ah, he was warm and deliciously solid. She'd missed being so close to him, missed feeling his strength and gentleness.

"Aye."

"And it could be that he only slipped. Maybe a bird flew out at him, and startled him." her hands reached for his.

"I don't know." Truly, he was more inclined to believe that the fall from the tower hadn't been an accident. But to tell Sylvia that would mean he'd have to explain their suspicions. His hand curled around her smaller one. "Someone tried to kill him at least once. There's no cause to want a sleeping child dead." He replied, an edge of anger creeping into his voice. Gods he wished he'd had a chance to question that murderous shit himself. He would have his answers, and not wonder what he should and should not say to his own wife. He would know whose head he should look for. Would know if the attack was one of many to come.

"You still think someone threw him from that tower?" she asked softly.

Robb bit down the sudden fear that he'd given himself away. But he remembered that in the days after the fall, before there was any suspicion of treachery, he'd confided in Sylvia is strong fear that someone had pushed him.

"He never falls." He replied firmly. "But if he doesn't remember, what can I do? We'll never know what actually happened if Bran can't tell us."

"It would be ill to force him." His wife countered knowingly. "The last thing he remembers is waving off you and Eddard for the King's hunt. Now he's woken, his mother, father, sisters and half brother are gone. He...he can't walk. So much has changed for him."

"I know." But what could he do now without answers from the victim himself? He couldn't stand the thought of those people getting away with hurting his brother. But Bran...he was too fragile to be asked over and over again about that terrible day. What if he had only fallen, and remembering only brought pain and shame? "I don't know where to go from here, Syl." He confessed to his beloved.

He felt her move away a little, and for a small second, he was afraid she would leave him. But she moved around his body, never putting more than a foot of space between them, until she stood before him, her blue eyes gazing up into his. She cradled his hand in both of hers, softness in her eyes.

"They failed." She said firmly. "Each time death has come for him, he has survived. They failed—whoever and whatever it was. And as long as you are breathing, I know no one would dare touch him."

The weight over Robb's shoulders seemed to lighten a little. It felt good to know she had such faith in him, when he felt himself flounder. He felt himself coming closer to her, his doubts for her family were pushed aside for the moment and she was no longer _'Sylvia, his wife and daughter of the enemy,'_ but simply, _his_ Sylvia. She was the one who helped make him a man, the one who mothered his child, and spoke sense when he could not see it. She was _it._

_I won't let anything happen to the boys, or Mini, or you so long as I have life in me,_ he thought ardently.

His hand moved from hers to beneath her cloak and to the dip on her back. He pulled her close, inhaling the sweet flowery scent of her long black tresses. He missed her scent, missed breathing her in because she was so close. The last few days, he'd only gotten brief hints of her hair as she brushed past him.

"From here, we just...try our best." _Well that was a little stupid sounding_ , she thought with a little frown. "Protect the children; help them when they need it. But always remember, when you feel guilty or afraid, that Bran is alive. After everything, _Bran is alive_." She murmured emphatically.

"I know." He whispered to her after a few moments of quiet.

He wanted to ask what sort of life awaited Bran now. Because he didn't know. He wanted to tell her that someone had tried to kill his brother, and that he couldn't just forget that fact, because he didn't want to. He wanted to ask her about her family, if they were the sort of people to send killers to open a little boy's throat as he slept. But he couldn't. So instead of dwelling on what he _could not_ say to her, he chose to listen to what she _could_ say to him.

Bran was alive, he was alive, _alive_.

His mouth was on hers before he could stop himself, insistent and heated; he kissed her like she was the only thing that mattered, like she was the only thing he needed. He missed her, needed her, and he...he wanted things to be simple again.

She gave a small noise of surprise against his mouth, before she kissed him back with equal passion. He felt her fingers crawl up to his shoulders, one hand going round his neck to pull him closer as the other dug into the soft fur lining his cloak.

Sylvia felt his hand reach for her throat, a gentle, yet possessive move that sent a thrill of heat through her. Her pulse raced beneath his thumb, and he grinned smugly against her lips when she made a soft noise of pleasure when his tongue reached out to stroke her lips.

A silly squeal broke through the air when Robb reached lower, both his hands falling low on her hips to draw her tight against him, her feet dangling off the ground. She felt the soft breeze caressing the bare skin of her cheek, signaling that Robb was moving them somewhere, but his lips were still hot against hers and she couldn't break away from them, even if she wanted to.

Gods be good, she had missed this. They hadn't made love in so long, (not since Bran's accident), and gods know her for a wanton, but she missed the feel of his bare skin against hers, his breath hot against her skin, or in her mouth, missed the taste of him, the needy groans he made when she rode him slow, the feel of him inside her. She craved it—no, she craved _him_ because maybe it was only good because it was with _him_.

It wasn't until she were this close to him did she realise how much she'd missed him.

They had gone through the last few days, barely speaking, minds clouded with anger or annoyance, and this had made the simplest conversations difficult to get through without a veiled barb or awkwardness filling the air and destroying any hope of friendliness or intimacy. Her anger felt righteous, and it made her steadfast and unyielding, and while it had cooled in the last few days, the fire had never been put out completely and her pride provided kindling.

Her thoughts crumbled away when she was suddenly pressed against a hard, uneven surface. The sudden foreign touch pulled her out of the warm haze his lips created, and when she looked up, she found the red leaves of the heart-tree above them. She gave a low, breathy moan as her husband's tongue ran over the column of her throat, knowing where this kiss was leading.

"I don't think this is very appropriate." She whispered breathlessly as he tasted her skin. Even as she said it, one of her legs kicked her woolen skirts out of the way, so it could curl around Robb's calf. Any more words she could say were morphed into a pleased whimper when he sucked on the delicate skin below her ear.

"Doesn't feel inappropriate to me." He whispered back to her. The hand over her waist rubbed back and forth gently, slowly moving lower and lower until he held her thigh through her dress.

His need for her reached down into the very marrow of him, and for the life of him, he couldn't recall why he'd been so angry at her the last few days. The young lord took up the leg already curled around his, and pulled it higher, her skirt rising up above her knee and exposing her stockings to the cold northern air. He hooked it round his hip and felt her tighten, pulling his hips as close to her as the barriers between them would allow.

"We've been here before, remember?" he asked as his hand reached down to support her leg, while his other hand returned to grip her neck in a soft hold.

A shuddering breath left her, and she pressed her cheek against his.

Of course she remembered. How on earth could she ever forget it? The first time they'd ever made love outside of the castle had been in the godswood, and it had been so unexpected and passionate that she hadn't been able to enter the godswood without blushing for a long time after. One moment they'd been walking and the next, her husband was lying her down in the middle of the godswood, his lips hot against her breasts while her hands reached for the ties of his breeches. Remembering still made her belly quiver, and Robb knew that.

"I..." she wondered what to say. Did their fight suddenly lose all merit to him? It hadn't to her. She was still burned by his lies, and wanted him to know that. Wanted him to be actually _sorry_ for that. But the way he was kissing her jaw, stealing her breath from her lungs, his hand on her neck in that soft, but dominate way she liked...it was all very distracting. His body called to hers, and she was hard-pressed to ignore the plea which matched hers. "How did it go again?"

He laughed against her neck. "It started with a kiss..."

Then his lips were back against hers, and her arms were pulling him closer, heat licking up her breasts and neck from deep within her belly. She felt too warm all over, which would have been a marvel at any other time; she was always cold in the north, her southern blood doing nothing to keep her warm.

Although she was wrapped around him, and his lips had captured hers in a long, lingering kiss, it didn't feel near enough. Her heart fluttered and a wonderfully warm throb began between her legs, one she wanted more than anything to continue.

Gloved hands curled around his neck, and she hurriedly wretched them off so her bare hands could return to his face. She felt the chill of the northern air as his hand hurriedly pushed her skirt higher, shoving her stockings down below her knee so he could hold her thigh without barriers. When his hand left her neck, he reached for her other leg, drawing it up around his hip. She reached down to help him by yanking up her dress so it pooled loosely around her waist. He groaned into her mouth when he pressed deeper between her welcoming legs, his manhood poking into the softness of her thigh.

She might have been afraid of being discovered if it were anyone but Robb holding her. Never once in all their time together, had he openly compromised her honour and dignity. He loved her and honored her, and would never be so careless as to bring her shame. Of course, embarrassments were not uncommon, but they were not incidences which branded her a disgrace or provoked whispers that she was a whore and a wanton.

Being with Robb as a wife is with her husband did not shame her, but she could never forget that being found this way would mean mockery. But, for Robb, she would risk it. With him, she was safe.

It was her who pulled her lips away this time, and she began a scorching trail of licks down his neck until she met the barrier of the clasp of his cloak, undershirt and doublet. She wanted him naked, wanted to put her hands on his belly, feel his muscles corded and tense, feel his coarse hair beneath her fingers...but it would come later. The need had climbed too high to care about much else than having him inside her.

"Then it was a touch..." he murmured to her. His clever fingers dragged up her thigh, long smooth pulls, inching closer and closer to where she needed him most. Sylvia held up the heavy fabric of her gown to help him. When he moved aside her small clothes to touch her most delicate area, her head fell to his shoulder, a soft moan rising from her throat.

She wanted to touch him too, wanted him to feel as good as she did, but she was done with teasing touches and light caresses. The southern woman wormed her hand down between them and felt him through his breeches, hard and straining against the strings. Robb gave a low groan in her ear. Her forehead rested against his shoulder as she looked down between them as she set to work, undoing the tires with hurried movements.

When her hand finally brought him out, and encircled him with a firm grip, her husband's eyes clenched shut, and a soft groan of pleasure reverberated against her neck. Quickly she returned her lips to his, her free hand reaching up to tangle in his hair.

A shudder wracked through her body when her husband gently pulled her hand from his cock, to press it against the tree just above her head. Their fingers curled around each others, his body hard against her.

For a few moments, they only kissed. Then suddenly, he pulled away, and put the smallest possible space between their lips, his nose still brushing against hers as they panted for breath.

"And then..." she coaxed with a soft sigh, her hips rolling forward so her wet heat brushed his length.

"Then..." he panted back. She felt him squeeze her thigh, and then she felt him against her womanhood, hard and hot and needy. He pulled a breathless moan from her as her legs tightened around him insistently. He could have grinned with pride at her need for him, but as he began to press inside her warmth, it fell away, and was replaced with a low groan of relief, which was echoed by the woman in his arms.

Before very long they were caught up in a hurried rhythm, their heavy breaths sending small puffs of hot steam up into the frigid evening air, their hair becoming mussed from gripping hands. Her back chaffed against the fabric of her shift and dress as Robb moved her against the tree, but she didn't care. The ache for satisfaction rang higher and higher, causing the hand clenched at her hip to squeeze tighter, and the hand around hers to tighten almost painfully. She was half sure her own fingers would come away with a gob of auburn curls, for how tightly she pulled his hair.

"S-Sylvia..." her husband groaned. She felt a thrill leap inside her, bringing a soft whimper from her throat.

In a moment fueled by pure desire, she managed to pry her eyes open to look down at him, wanting to see him when they fell off into that moment of incomparable bliss. Her body flushed hotly, the coil of pleasure between her thighs unstoppable as she began to spiral down that boundless chasm of passion filled moans and breathless gasps. He was so beautiful while he found his own pleasure, his mouth open in a soundless shout, his sweet face contorted in bliss as his hair fell into his eyes.

With the gorgeous sight of her one and only love leaping off the precipice of ecstasy because of _her_ , her body writhed, her legs tightening to bring him closer, the feel of his body against her was nowhere near close enough. She hardly heard her own sobs of delight, or the gasps of his name that spilled from her lips, because her husband's voice was in her ear as he buried his nose in her neck, his groans vibrating through her neck.

She felt him lay soft kisses against her neck as they tried to regain their breath. In the daze that followed, she ran her fingers through his curls, her legs slackening around his hips while he gently stroked her thigh to soothe the trembling. Slowly, he eased out of her, and let her feet return to the ground, her dress falling around her in a perfectly innocent way that revealed nothing of what just transpired. He tucked himself away and they shared a secretive smile.

He pulled her close to him suddenly, kissing her happily, slowly pulling away and starting back towards the castle. There were no words needed to explain or discuss, what had just happened. They were contented in the aftermath. Sylvia couldn't wait to get back to their chamber to do it again. And again.

He pressed a kiss to her temple as they walked, his arm wrapped protectively around her shoulder, when she looked up at him.

"I need you to promise me something." She said softly. He looked back at her, finding a small crease between her brows.

"Anything." He replied. They stopped and stood among the rushes and fallen leaves. The torches of the archway leading into the yard of the castle were not far off, and the gentle flickers of orange flame could be seen easily through the trees. The sun just dipped below the hills, casting all of Winterfell in shadow, the dark blue sky was beginning to dot with thousands of stars.

" _Never_ lie to me again." She didn't want the words to get away from her before she had said them—even if he refused to comply, as was a man's right, at least she would have laid herself bare for him to see her thoughts, her vulnerability—at least he would know. He pulled back to meet her eyes, a frown on his brow. No other word or combination of words seemed to fit, so she only uttered a simple, "Please."  _If you do, how shall I come past it?_

The crease between his brows deepened, and he looked away, seeming thoughtful. She willed him to agree, to give her reason to _trust_ him. After what felt like an age, he gave a short nod. The breath left her lungs in relief, as her hands found his bearded face. She wanted to kiss him, but then his hands were around her wrists, stopping her from pulling him closer.

"My mother didn't go to the Eyrie." He said, his suddenly serious eyes never leaving hers. 

"What?" the words he'd just spoken seemed mad. Nonsensical, even. Not in the Eyrie? Wherever would Catelyn be, if not with her sister? How did Robb know this? Her hands pulled from his face, but Robb quickly took hold of her hands so she could not slap him if she thought to.

"She went to King's Landing. To see my father." He explained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this when 5x06 came out. And still, my warning is the same. for those who have not watched it, I suggest skipping the last few minutes of this episode...it still pisses me off today :(


	18. Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wow, 2 chapters in 1 night... :D

**Chapter 15: Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things**

Her winter dress and heavy cotton petticoat did _not at all_ suit the warm climate of King's Landing. Sweat beaded down her neck and in her hair, and it was only for the cool ocean breeze that she did not tear off the dress and ride in her shift. But of course, she would not stop to find suitable garb, because her task required the swiftness of a fox. The scarf hiding her auburn hair fluttered in the breeze and she was afraid that it would fly off and twist and tumble in the wind until it was far from reach.

It had been ten years since Catelyn last stepped foot in the Capitol—the last time being just around the Greyjoy Rebellion, when Robert Baratheon called all nobles back to the Capitol, so they may reaffirm their loyalty by bending the knee. Back then, the courtiers had known her name, but not her face. If the gods were good, it would help her pass by unnoticed.

Every trot forward brought her closer to her husband and daughters, and her heart began to ache with sweet excitement. She'd been half mad the last she'd seen them, and she longed to see them once more with cleared eyes. She missed the sweet scent of Sansa and Arya's hair, the feel of their skinny arms wound tight around her. She missed her husband's strong arms and broad chest, the chest she's wept in and leaned into for comfort more times than she could count.

But her husband needed to know of who had come to kill their sweet boy, of the killer who had tried to open his throat. This must be dealt with first before she could bask in the warmth of being with her husband and daughters again.

So Catelyn rode into King's Landing with Ser Rodrik by her side, hope and determination in her heart, the promise of justice not so far off.

* * *

It was not a secret that Tywin's youngest child was a man who enjoyed wine, women and gambling. Or, at least, that's how the people of Westeros viewed him: a vile soul to match with his vile appearance. It was partly true, at least. He enjoyed squandering his lord father's fortune, and oft times he found what he spent his gold on, well worth his father's barbs.

But as he passed through Winter Town, he did not look back at the little brothel he'd kept warm in the month previous. He resisted the urge to climb down from his horse, and to find some wine to warm his belly and a comely woman to help warm a bed for the day. He would not arrive at his niece's dwelling, only to do her dishonour by greeting a whore before he greeted her.

As his horse trotted on, the little lord flinched at another icy breeze biting at his face. Tyrion thought he might have grown used to the cold these last few weeks, especially when he had just come from the coldest place known to man. In a moment of jest, he'd told Yoren, the Night's Watchmen who accompanied him, that he was starting to worry that his cock might freeze off. "It will be a great loss to the women of the world." He'd boasted to his companion.

Although he was inclined to fine a comely northern woman to warm it for him, his niece, and grandniece must be greeted first. Surely she and Robb Stark would be interested to know how Jon Snow fared at the Wall.

Also, it was said in a raven's scroll sent to the Wall that the young Stark boy who'd fallen—Bran—was awake. If Tyrion were honest—and he usually was—he'd admit he hadn't been entirely hopeful about the boy's recovery. As far as the scroll explained, Bran was sound of mind, and apart from his broken legs, he was healthy. Yet in spite of this miracle, the boy's life would be considerably harder. But he could honestly attest to the fact that life could be sweet as honey, even as a grotesque. Or, in Bran's case, a broken thing.

When he was a boy, he'd always wanted to ride. He'd watch Jaime, tall and gleaming, and wanted to be like him. He wanted to be in a tourney, and make the nobles who laughed at him gawk in awe, and make a pretty girl blush simply by smiling at her. When he nearly killed himself trying to ride, his father ordered their saddler to craft him a special saddle, because he would not have a Lannister die by being thrown or pulled by his horse. Tyrion thought that might've pleased Tywin to die in such a manner, but the saddle had been made anyway. He still couldn't fight or joust in a tourney, but he was as tall as any knight on his horse.

He felt sorry for the Stark lad. All boys—crippled, grotesque, or otherwise broken—wanted to ride. It was a symbol of manhood, and of maturity. And he thought he heard from a love stuck Myrcella, that " _her"_ Bran had said he wanted to be a member of the King's Guard. Now that would never happen, but perhaps Tyrion could do this small kindness and give the boy something from his old life to hold to.

When he was at the iron gates leading into the castle's yard, he was greeted by the whelp of Balon Greyjoy on the other side. Of course he looked more northern than Ironborn.

"Come along, Lannister. Lord Robb is waiting." The boy ordered briskly. Rolling his eyes, the dwarf climbed from his horse, and entered the castle, following the ward until they reached familiar doors and entered the Great Hall.

* * *

As the half-man traveled through the moors surrounding Winterfell, his niece resided within the castle, inside the private confines of her chambers, soaking in a deliciously hot bath. The scent of rose oil lingered in the steamy air as she ran a wet cloth over the chilled skin of her neck and shoulders.

The new Lady of Winterfell had always loved her baths, even more so since coming to live in the north. She could remember big tubs of copper, so big, she could swim in them. She could remember lavender oil, and extract of pomegranate and the smell of lilies of the valley in her hair after her maid washed it. She missed those smells, but she thought the northerners might find her scent cloying, since most of them smelled of sweat and hay and leather.

But now, she was simply happy to be totally warm, even though a niggling feeling pulled at her enjoyment and relaxation.

When Robb told her that his mother hadn't gone to the Eyrie as he'd told her—lied to her (once again)—she thought he was jesting, the silly warm haze from the pleasure of lovemaking, turning his jokes from amusing to unimaginable. But he hadn't been teasing her. He told the truth.

His daft mother had dared the precarious journey to King's Landing, with no more protection than an aged knight. And for what? To see Lord Eddard. Only to see him and her daughters, and while Sylvia thought she could understand that urge, she still thought the woman a tad touched.

From behind her, she could hear Elane setting out her dress for when the water grew cold.

"Elane, how is my little girl?" she called out softly, not wanting to wake her little one if she were still asleep.

"Still asleep, my lady. She loves her naps these days, it seems." Replied the handmaid.

"I've asked Maester Luwin about it and he says Robb did the same when he was a babe. He slept much of the time, but it was because he was growing." Thinking about her husband as a babe made something in her heart soften and her lips smile. This was further proof that Mini was more Robb's than hers. She took after the north, as she should. Sylvia didn't think that a southern babe would flourish here as a northern babe would.

"I heard a woman say that a baby that sleeps a lot will have a busy life when they are older. That they're just savouring sleep while they can." Elane commented as she walked back towards the tub, settling down on the stool by her lady's head.

The maid reached for a Sylvia's damp black locks as the high born girl began to speak. "That's a good one." She smiled, leaning forward a bit so Elane could begin to rinse her hair of the winter rose oil. "I'll need to ask Lady Catelyn about that one when she returns. _If_ she returns." She added sourly.

Elane frowned. " _'If'_ my lady? The Eyrie is not so far, and no doubt she'll grab the first horse she can and ride back to Winterfell when she hears about the little lord." The elder girl knew it was not her place to comment on intimate matters regarding her lady and the house which sheltered and employed her. But why would her lady think that the elder Lady Stark would not return?

Sylvia was quiet, not even a moan of pleasure coming from her as the warm water from the bowl beside the tub came spilling down her long hair and back.

When Robb told her where Catelyn had gone, her first instinct was anger. She pushed him away, feeling as though he only told her the truth after such they made love, and all tensions had melted away. She'd growled at him, low and hurt, but when her hisses became louder, he rushed forward, pressing a hand to her lips, fending off her hands when they attempted to shove him back.

Between her grumbling and pushing, he softly told her he lied because he knew knowing their mother had gone all the way to the Capitol would only upset Rickon, and later Bran, further.

And he lied to _her_ , he said, because he didn't want her to worry, and that he did so with only her heart in his mind. Truly, knowing the truth didn't change much: Catelyn was still gone, the boys still missed her. But she'd only just chosen to forgive him for letting the woman go in the first place, and the whole thing felt like a fresh wound all over again.

 _His face was honest. Nothing had changed. Catelyn would come back_. The thoughts swirled round in her head as she regarded her husband, trying to quell the swelling hurt with reason. What would be the point of being angry again when nothing had truly changed? But would not forget it any time soon. Especially since he only told her after he'd taken her against the heart-tree.

"Men love to talk when they're happy, don't they?" was all she'd said to him before they continued their walk back to the castle.

It had been an unspoken agreement between the two that she keep silent about this new fact to everyone but him. He didn't want the whole of Winterfell to know that the elder lady had gone much farther from Winterfell than they believed. But where was the harm in telling Elane? She was no fool, and would keep her mouth shut if Sylvia ordered her.

Before she had more time to think of it, the princess opened her mouth. "It's a dangerous road, the King's Road. Especially traveling it for over a month." She could practically hear the perplexed look on her friend's face. "Lady Catelyn has gone much farther than the Eyrie, Elane. I fear some horror befalling her on her way to King's Landing."

"K-King's _Landing_?" Elane gasped. "But-but my lady, why has she gone so far?"

"To be with her husband and daughters for a time. She hasn't seen her sister in years, and the rumor is, is that the woman's become even madder since Lord Arryn died. So, why take time with a demented, estranged sister, when she could be with the man she loves, and the daughters she hardly said goodbye to?" Sylvia posed wisely, though in a bland sort of tone.

"Oh," was all Elane managed. She finished rinsing her lady's hair, when the younger girl spoke again.

"Poor Bran." She said, leaning her head back on the lip of the tub. "I wish I could do more, but I can't. I'm not his mother. So all I do when I go to see him is talk, and hope he talks back, but when he does he snaps." The reality that he would never walk again had sunk into Bran only a few days after he awoke. Knowing this was not a temporary state, one quickly and easily remedied by their sweet trusted maester, had embittered the boy. He felt cheated, thwarted in life and by life and no one could make him feel any different.

Bran had even fallen so low, as to tell Robb he wished he were dead. Sylvia flinched to think it, to think of such good, sweet boy, wish for such a thing.

There was little he would be able to do now, but when she was a girl, she'd once or twice seen a noble lord rendered immobile from gout, and had seen the wheeled chair they used to get around. But Winterfell was all cobbled stones and towers. Would Bran benefit at all from such a chair? She had mentioned it to Bran and Robb both, and said she would procure a craftsman from the south if he could produce that special chair. That had seemed to lighten Bran, but still he watched out his window with longing. Perhaps her pity was what made Bran so likely to bristle at her words?

"I don't think it is you he is angry at, my lady." Elane replied softly. "Is there anything else, my lady?"

Sylvia thought a moment. "No, Elane. You may leave."

* * *

The handmaid left the room under a guise of perfect ease, but as soon as the door behind her closed, her feet quickened and rushed towards the raven's tower. It was as though the information she'd just learned had to be put to paper at once, lest she forget, and it become muddled.

The lanky steward who fed the ravens was there, but she ignored him as she went to the table at the center of the room. The raven's tower was round, smelled of shit and rotten meat, but she'd grown used to it in her time as Sylvia Stark's maid. She'd spent many stolen moments here, although most of them have been for the benefit of her _other_ employer.

She pulled up a strip of parchment and a pot of ink, when the lanky steward spoke. "'Nother letter to ya sweetheart, eh, Elane?" she could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke. Elane reached for a quill, not turning around to look at him.

"Yes." She replied shortly. She never liked it when he tried speaking with her when she was trying to arrange her words. It distracted her and to be distracted meant making mistakes.

The queen would pay a _satchel_ of gold for what she'd learned today, and her mother, all the way in Lannisport, would survive another few months in her little cottage. Elane had been in the queen's service for long enough to know that—beside discretion—Her Grace valued the juiciest information. But this was the north, nothing interesting _ever_ happened here.

So Elane mollified Cersei with information about her daughter, about the pathetic woes of the girl's marriage, and the wellbeing of her grandchild. The queen must have been very happy to hear what she knew, because her mother still lived in comfort.

The light haired maid had almost been discovered, by Fredrik Ravenback, her lady's old knigt. Just two years she'd been here, and this was the first true scare she'd ever experienced. The knight was wily, suspicious in his age, and had glared at her with his blue eyes of ice, dissecting and studying her like he knew of what her letter contained. The red of his hair was tinted with white, but the old knight was as keen as ever. He was the only man she ever feared would suspect her.

But he'd believed her story about a lonely scribe who held her heart. Just like everyone, thank the gods. She scribbled a little faster, ignoring the sound coming from the lanky steward by the cages.

Discovery frightened her a great deal, and more than once, she'd wondered if she should just leave Winterfell all together. Maybe she could steal a jewel or two from her lady's desk and sell it, and run with her mother to the Free Cities. But she never could. She didn't know what the Starks would do to her if they caught her trading secrets with the queen, but did not wish to find out. The Bolton's and their cruelty to their enemies was famous throughout the Realm, and some people said the Starks and Bolton's shared an ancestor.

When her message was finished, she walked to the cages herself, and grabbed a raven. She secured the little scroll to its delicate, scaly leg, and brought it to the open ledge. As it flew off into the air, she thought of her mother, in her warm little cottage, the silky soft white cat which kept her company curled up in her lap.

One day, she would be done and go to her and live a life without serving.

* * *

Robb glared down at the half-man with hardly restrained contempt. He knew he ought to have more respect for his wife's uncle, but all he saw as he stared at the dwarf was Bran's mangled legs, and his mother's sliced open hands. It would have been Bran's life, had it not been for the wolf. Unthinkingly, he reached down and gave Grey Wind a scratch behind his ears.

How could the dwarf show his face here? To greet Sylvia, no doubt, but he'd rather have the Imp travel on to the next village instead of showing his ugly face around Winterfell. Hopefully this was all over with soon, and the dwarf was on his way before midday. Though he knew his wife would attempt to prolong the visit for longer than was necessary.

He'd never thought much of the dwarf before, a curiosity though he was with his stunted legs. He'd never seen a dwarf before Tyrion Lannister came to Winterfell. He remembered, once or twice, fearing that whatever cursed Tywin with a child like Tyrion would arise again when Sylvia got pregnant. "Blood always tells," Old Nan would say. But Mini was born perfect, no stunted legs, no oversized head. Perfect and beautiful and all Sylvia. Nothing like the man before him.

The Imp was a famous drunkard and whoremonger, but he was not as rowdy as Sylvia's royal father and he remembered Sylvia once or twice saying that the Imp and Renly Baratheon had been her favorite companions as a child. When they were available, anyway. He supposed he should tolerate him, for the love Sylvia bore him and for the sake of the honour of his House. But the idea of being chivalrous to a Lannister set his teeth on edge.

They were enemies, and you did not give your enemy the Guest Right.

"I must say, I received a slightly warmer greeting on my first visit." Lord Tyrion remarked as he met Robb's stern glare with his own. He was not intimidated by the boy; in fact, Robb Stark seemed more a petulant child with a lord's title hanging over him, letting power make him arrogant, and snotty. _A lot like Joffrey_ , he thought snidely.

"Any man of the Night's Watch is welcome at Winterfell." Said the lordling, nodding to the black brother beside him. His name was Yoren, and he had accompanied Tyrion all the way from Castle Black, with the intent to be his companion all the way back to King's Landing. There, Yoren would clean out the Black Cells, and bring those new recruits back to the Wall for a life of celibacy and freezing cocks.

Yoren gave a nod back.

"But not I, eh boy?" Tyrion quipped, his face unreadable.

"I'm not your boy, Lannister. I am Lord of Winterfell while my father is away."

"Then you might learn a lord's courtesy." The Imp replied. He glanced at the empty dais, and around the empty room, his curiosity piqued. "Where is my niece? I thought at least _one_ Lady Stark would greet me. I'd quite like to see my niece, though, if you're done hiding her away."

Tyrion remembered how Cersei used to keep her away from Court when the girl was very small. Often, the proceedings would be so tedious to the little princess, she'd take to talking to an imaginary friend, one only she could see—one only she could play with. Their lord father didn't have to tell Cersei to keep her fanciful child away from the eyes of the courtiers. Had she been older, Tyrion suspected that Tywin himself would have shamed the girl until she forgot her pretend friend and lived in loneliness. But Cersei had hidden her—in her apartments, in the gardens, away from public eye and called it "protecting" her.

That hadn't stopped gossip, and the only thing that had, was Tywin Lannister's fierce glare. He could admit this about his father: he shut the gossipers up.

 _Lord_ Robb drew in a slow breath. "My wife has private matters to attend." He said simply.

"Well whatever they are, I'm sure you won't mind me waiting for her. She is a very dear girl to me, after all. I may even start to grow on you, Lord Stark. I certainly grew on your bastard brother." Tyrion ended with a wry smile.

Robb snapped his eyes away from Tyrion. He had no doubt the dwarf would wait, and he was sorely tempted to make him. He wanted no Lannister coming near his family, and the thought of his sweet wife speaking with a potential enemy made rage coil inside his chest, no matter that the enemy was her uncle.

Sacred law forced him to give the Imp respect simply for the blood he shared with his wife. He'd seen his wife hurt enough times in the last short weeks, and if he could spare her any more heartache, he would. The Realm was at peace, and Sylvia knew nothing of his suspicions. To her, her uncle was good. When word did get out about what the Lannisters may have done, and it would get out, who knew when she would see her uncle again— _if_ she would.

He thought of Bran suddenly, and his wish to be dead rather than live a life without his legs, and his hands clenched. He thought for a second of ordering the guards to seize the dwarf and overtake his men. He thought of holding him at Winterfell until they obtained answers, but he thought of father. Of Sansa and Arya. Of Sylvia. He remembered the danger that would put his father and sisters in, and how seizing Tyrion now would only bring a momentary satisfaction.

If Bran saw him, would he remember? What if he remembered a face, a shadow, a word, that had connected with what caused him to fall? Bran's presence to greet a noble lord was expected anyway, so that he may observe and learn the art of courtesy and diplomacy.

There could be some benefit to this folly of a greeting, yet.

With a nod to the guard behind him, he ordered him to fetch his wife Bran.

* * *

Sylvia wrapped her blue shawl over her shoulders, her damp hair pressing against her back as she wrapped the shawl tight around her. She glanced over at Mini, still sound asleep in her cradle and breathed a sigh of relief that she had slept through her bath. For a moment, she wondered where Elane had gone and when she would be back.

With quiet feet, the onyx haired princess moved from the bed and to the vanity where her maid had set her jewelry when she undressed for her bath. Quickly, she slipped on her wedding ring—a simple band of silver—and took up the necklace she'd taken to wearing. It was simple; a leather cord threading through an amethyst stone, made to settle just beneath the dip of her collar bone. Sansa and Arya had given it to her after Mini was born, and it had since become a habit to wear it.

A pale glint caught her eye as she pulled the necklace up around her neck. It took a moment to recognize her silver stag's antler necklace, lying in a heap in a shallow little bowl. Something—perhaps nostalgia—made her set the northern given necklace down, and take up the southern forged pendent.

As her fingers traveled the sharp points of the antler, she couldn't recall the last time she felt its cold weight around her neck or the poke of the antler tips against her skin. She'd taken it off for Mini, to prevent her delicate skin from being broken by the points of the antlers. The southerner wrapped the silver chain around her fingers (already preparing to set it aside again, because Mini could still prick herself on it), and recalled how her Uncle Renly had it made for her when she was a girl.

He'd given it to her on her tenth name day, the year before she was to be sent north for her betrothed. The words he'd spoken to her that day whispered in her ear still. _You're a Baratheon. Never forget that, no matter the sot you marry._

She smiled to think of him, his easy smile and his kind eyes coming to memory. When she was small, she hadn't understood what he'd meant—she'd just been happy to receive another present for her name day, and had asked him with a curious look, "Who else would I be?"

Renly only laughed and wrapped an arm around her as he led her to the table of sweets laid out for her name day.

Sylvia looked back down at the necklace. She was still a Baratheon, no matter the necklace she wore or the name she's taken. She was still that girl who had grown up under Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister's eyes. Gods be good, she had her father's fury and mother's gentleness and grace. She was a princess still; a stag.

The silver antlers glittered once more in the soft light. But she didn't wear her Baratheon necklace anymore.

Suddenly, a knock resounded through the room, yanking her from her thoughts with a jolt. Quickly, she set the necklace down onto the table and eyed her ever sleepy daughter out of instinct.

"Come in." She called gently, flicking her damp onyx locks over her shoulders. When the door opened, Ser Fredrik appeared, tall and wide in her doorway. "Fredrik." She greeted with a smile.

Her old knight smiled back at her, and Sylvia felt some sort of relief flow through her heart. He _never_ smiled at her differently. As he smiled at her now, he had smiled at her when she lived in the Capitol. He had the same smile when she was three and babbled incessantly about her pets and toys. Other things around her had changed, but Ser Fredrik had not—not in all the time she'd known him. She was certain her and Fredrik's friendship would never alter. All at once, she was grateful to her mother for giving him to her.

"My lady, Lord Robb requests your attendance in the Great Hall. Lord Tyrion has just arrived."

The grin that spread across Sylvia's face warmed Fredrik's heart in a way he knew Robert Baratheon's never had.

* * *

"...give that to your saddler, and he will provide the rest." Her dear little uncle's voice carried through the corridors as Sylvia Stark arrived just outside the doors to the Great Hall. "Start with a yearling. Teach it to respond to reins and to the boy's voice." Her damp hair chilled her to the bones, and she pulled the shawl around her tighter. How sweet it would be to see her uncle again—like one last taste of her southern home before he rode off again.

"Will I really be able to ride?" Bran asked softy, sounding afraid to hear the answer. Sylvia's ears perked up and her steps halted for a short second, making Fredrik behind her stumble to a stop. Bran had hardly been out of his chambers since he woke up, and when Robb commanded Hodor, the sweet simple giant, to carry Bran about the castle, the young boy made it abundantly clear that he was not happy with his brother's orders. But now he sounded almost hopeful, and Sylvia had to see what her uncle had offered him.

"You will." Tyrion replied with a kind grin at the crippled boy, just as his niece rounded the corner.

"Is this a trick? Why do you want to help him?" Robb demanded with a frown. Did the dwarf feel responsible? Was this an attempt at repentance? Was it a sign of guilt?

"A happy thank you, would suffice, my love." Sylvia sounded joyfully as she strode further into the Hall.

"Ah! Sylvia dear." Tyrion greeted. "Radiant, as ever, sweetling."

"You're always too kind, uncle. But go ahead and repeat that to everyone in the Capitol." She smiled back as she leaned down to kiss his cheek. When she straightened herself, she looked up at Bran, whose attention was trained on the roll of paper in his hands. "What have you given him, uncle?" she asked.

"A means to ride, it seems." Robb provided from the dais, drawing his wife's eyes up to his. He hoped she could read his eyes, see his discomfort and understand that he had no wish to prolong this visit further. Sylvia's face broke out into a disbelieving, but hopeful smile, one that lit up her face in the most beautiful way. It seemed she was blind to everything but her own excitement.

"Truly?"

"Yes." Tyrion replied.

"That's marvelous. Thank you, Uncle Tyrion." She beamed. "I'll see it made at once."

"Good. Good."

"How long do you need to feed and water your horses? We are happy to provide you with food and drink for the long journey ahead." Robb's voice rose from the dais.

Sylvia's brows rose at her husband in surprise. _How rude_ , she thought scornfully. It was with her lady's lessons that she managed to bite down the sudden admonition for him to be so rude to the man who just gave Bran a priceless gift. "S-surely there's no rush." She back at Tyrion. "The day is young still, and you've only just arrived. You haven't even seen Mini yet." She gave her uncle a hopeful smile.

Tyrion gave her an apologetic grin and took her hand in his. "Ah, my dear, I wish I could, but the longer I remain, the lonelier and poorer the whores of King's Landing get." Cersei hated him enough to berate him and chastise him for his escapades in front of her children, and so he'd taunted her with his openness of his depravity. Her children (apart from Joffrey, who shared his mother's heart) found it amusing—it didn't hurt them or embarrass them the way Robert's shamelessness did. He supposed, to them, it was amusing because he was a dwarf.

He would remain if he were welcome, if he thought Robb Stark wouldn't count down the minutes until he left. Though the long ride from the Wall had made his legs and arse _very_ sore...

Sylvia giggled softly, hoping to hide the disappointment just enough that Tyrion felt a little guilty, but not so much that she seemed indifferent.

Robb bit the inside of his cheek subtly as he eyed his wife and then his brother, who still mulled over the roll of parchment with eager eyes. The dwarf's presence here had made the two of them happier, and what sort of man and lord didn't offer hospitality to the man who'd given his brother such a gift as hope? He didn't like it, but he knew he had to extend an offer of truce or raise suspicions.

"You've done my brother a kindness and my wife is right. You haven't seen Mini yet. The hospitality of Winterfell is yours."

It was the dwarf's first instinct to decline with a quick barb towards the boy. He could almost smell the false kindness spewing from his mouth because he'd heard it enough times from other men, and other women. It angered him, and reminded him of all the times he'd ever had that belittling, forced courtesy presented to him, and he wanted more than anything to be out of this dank castle and be warm in a bed, with a wine cup in one hand, and a woman's tit in the other.

But his niece was beside him, (one of the few people in this world who had never been _intentionally_ cruel to him), and he knew she looked happy and hopeful he would accept. And he did want to visit his grand-niece one last time while she was still a babe.

With a smile that was easily faked, Tyrion replied, "Well how can I refuse the hospitality of the great castle of Winterfell?" Like Tyrion, Robb could hear the lies on his lips, and bristled, already regretting his offer.

* * *

Varys unsheathed the blade that would have murdered her son and admired the wickedly sharp steel that appeared. "Valyrian steel..." he remarked with awe.

Catelyn almost huffed with impatience like a child. "Do you _know_ whose dagger this is?" she asked with hardly managed patience. After Petyr used King's Landing guardsmen to summon her to his _brothel_ of all places, she was nearing the end of her frayed rope. She could see the wisdom of such an act, yes, but the fact that she could still hear passionate moans and wet slaps of skin through the walls did not ease her annoyance much.

The Spider looked vaguely uncomfortable. "I must say I do not." He replied as he sheathed the blade. Catelyn's eyes lowered in defeat. If Varys the Spider, the _spy master_ of King's Landing knew not who owned this ugly weapon, there was little chance anyone would.

A low chuckle broke through her disappointment, and she was surprised to see the absolute glee on Petyr's face when she turned to look at him with narrowed eyes. _What in the Seven Hells is he smiling about?_ She wanted to hit him for a moment, to slap the inappropriate look from his moustached face, but then recalled the ugly scar Brandon Stark had given him when he and Petyr had dueled for her marriage bed.

"Well, isn't this momentous." Littlefinger said with a sly smile at the Master of Whispers. The smallest hint of a frown of irritation flittered across the foreigner's face. "Something _you_ don't know, that _I_ do." Catelyn raised a brow, hope renewing once more inside her. This all could have been for something after all! "There's only one dagger like this in all of the Seven Kingdoms." His delighted eyes met Catelyn's expectant ones. "It's _mine_." He said firmly.

"Yours?" the Lady of Winterfell asked with a raised brow of confusion.

Baelish gave a nod. "At least it was. Until the tournament on Prince Joffrey's last name day." He looked positively excited to have this information to offer Cat, where Varys had been lacking. "I bet on Ser Jaime, in the jousting, as any sane man would. When the Knight of the Flowers unseated him, I lost this dagger." His smile fell away finally at remembering the loss but his eyes remained solely on Catelyn, as though they were the only two people in the room.

"To whom?" Catelyn demanded eagerly.

"Tyrion Lannister. The Imp."

 _The Imp?_ That ugly little lecher? He...he'd sent a man to slay her child in his bed? Sweet, _innocent_ little Bran who had once sat at her knee? 

Ever since she'd come out of her grief, Catelyn had been steadfast in accusing the Lannisters, and any tiny doubt she had about her conviction was erased just as swiftly as it came. But to finally hear her fears confirmed gave her equal satisfaction and dread. Part of her feared that the tremendous wealth of the Lannisters and their deeply rooted hooks in the crown would bring them beyond reproach. Another part of her wondered about that girl, the southern girl who remained at Winterfell, sharing her son's bed and whispering whatever she pleased in his ear.

What of _her?_ Would justice come for _her_ head as well?

"You're wondering about your good-daughter." Petyr's voice broke through her ponderings. She didn't look up at him. Her eyes still burned with the salt of unshed tears. "The Imp's own niece, the queen's eldest daughter. Understandable suspicion, as she is the family of the ones responsible for your son's ill health." Catelyn glanced back up at Petyr, apprehension and a hint of fear in her eyes. She was not afraid of _him_ ; she never could be. They'd grown together at Riverrun—he'd fought for her hand, and even though she burned every letter he sent her thereafter out of respect to her betrothed (first Brandon and then her husband Ned), she'd always thought of him with fondness. He was as dear to her as her brother Edmure.

She was afraid of what he might _say_ to confirm her fears of her own good-daughter.

After what felt like a lifetime, he said "Your fears are unfounded. She was a fanciful child, but she could not have had a part in this plot." _Fanciful?_ Catelyn wondered what that meant, but didn't think to ask aloud.

"It's true, Lady Stark." Varys agreed from behind her. "Young Lady Sylvia hasn't the heart to plot against your family. She's a good, sweet thing, after all."

The weight of all this felt too much to bear alone. With Ned by her side, she could think clearly, they could share their knowledge and know what to do with this. She could be comforted, she could stop being strong for just a little while. "I need Ned." She said.


	19. Lady

**Chapter 16: Lady**

Her uncle spent the night in a brothel with a gaggle of whores to service him. Had it been anyone else, she would have felt truly offended—would have raved to Robb about their guest preferring to sleep in a whore's flea ridden bed, between her filthy thighs rather than a clean, generously offered bed in the castle. She would have hoped them never to return to Winterfell, and if they ever dared show their face, they would be greeted with none of the generosity she'd previously hailed them with.

But the offender was her uncle, and to shame ones kin, was to shame oneself. So Sylvia held her tongue, and quelled the sting of insult in remembering that this was the way it had always been.

When she was a girl, she recalled mother speaking sharply about her dwarf brother, and though she could not recall the words she'd used, as she grew older she pieced them together based on other people's jeers and the gossip about her uncles...nightly and often daily activates. Her father was often in the same sate with the same sort of women, but because he wore a crown, the crowds and her mother were silent. Mostly.

Memories of violent sounds and angry shouts sprung up so abruptly that it jolted her, and had her clamouring to shove the unwelcome thoughts away from her, like hot coals still red from the fire.

"Safe travels, uncle." The princess advised from her place beside Robb. The baby in her arms wriggled with boredom, her little feet nudging at her mother's arm through her bindings. It vaguely reminded the princess of when she felt Mini kick inside her, delighting both her and Robb.

"Always, my dear. Come to the Capitol, sooner rather than not." _Though Jaime would rather you lived and died here, never setting a toe towards the south again._ His brother was a jealous man, even though their niece's only crime was having Robert Baratheon for a father. "Or better yet, the Rock." He amended.

"I haven't been there since I was a girl, uncle." All she remembered of Casterly Rock was the great waterfall rushing into the ocean, and how being in the castle's tallest tower had made her feel on top of the world.

"I recall. You brought such joy to those boring halls. Please think about it. The maids are getting lazy."

Sylvia gave him a small smile—her mother's taut smile, Tyrion realized—and gave him a polished, courteous reply that basically said "perhaps". In the small quirk of her lips, Tyrion saw he'd treaded on a delicate issue. Mayhaps her husband refused travel—a homebody as he seemed, he doubted any of the Starks ever wished to leave their cold dwelling, as though they'd all melt without the snow and the ice.

He thought that Robb Stark would keep Sylvia locked in that dreary old castle tasted sour in his mouth.

But he remembered that Casterly Rock was ruled by his own father, and decided Sylvia wished to avoid her stern, implacable grandfather. He had never seen Tywin Lannister show any sort of warmth or fondness to any of Cersei's children, not even the boy who was Robert's heir.

It seemed his father held the belief that Cersei would do a fine job of crafting Joffrey into a suitable ruler on her own. Tyrion hoped that Tywin lived to witness his sister's ill work when the repulsive monster ascended the throne.

The wedded and bedded Baratheon princess settled a soft kiss to her uncle's large head as farewell, before he looked up to meet her husband's eye. He gave Robb a stiff nod of gratitude, though, in all truth, Ros the red head whore deserved more gratitude for her hospitality than the heir of Winterfell.

"Swift travels, Lord Tyrion." Robb offered formally.

It was for Sylvia that Tyrion did not tell the boy to eat his fickle words. "Not swift enough, Stark." With that, the Imp turned and waddled away with all the pride of a Lannister. Sylvia bit back the little frown which pulled at her lips. It would be nothing short of divine intervention that her husband and wicked little uncle ever took to each other.

Mini had liked Tyrion enough, to be true, and her uncle Imp had taken a liking to her as well.

The only babes she had ever seen her little uncle hold were Joffrey and Myrcella, but only on a few, barely remembered occasions and she remembered how mother had handed her children over to Tyrion like she were handing them to a pox ridden street rat.

Tyrion only ever came in tow of his elder brother, her mother's twin, and only stayed as long as he could stand her mother's barbs. As she grew older, the words imp, grotesque and monster lost their meaning as they were always spoken when referring to her uncle. She never thought it hurt him much because he only ever answered with stunning wit to make Uncle Jaime laugh. So Sylvia had grown up calling him the same, never thinking much on her words until her beloved Fredrik had mentioned how it must surely bother the Imp to be called thus. She hesitated thereafter to call him anything but uncle, because she truly cared for him, and had no wish to hurt his feelings. If he were like Uncle Jaime, she would not have cared a whit.

When she asked him about it, in the blunt way only young children could, he told her not to concern herself with such grown up things.

But here in Winterfell, her uncle held her daughter as fondly as Benjen or Eddard ever had. Her sweet girl did not see a dwarf or a whoremonger, and did not know to recoil in disgust. And Sylvia found nothing ill in allowing her uncle to hold her child. He hadn't had the chance when he first arrived in the castle with the rest of the royal family. She was not mindful of the reason, but often, Sylvia was blind to her mother's hateful, cold eyes.

While Tyrion held Minisa with a little smile of growing fondness, her other uncle—her mother's favorite brother—had scarcely looked at the child for more than a second. When asked if he would like to hold her, Jaime said he was better suited to hold swords than babes. Sylvia thought it might hurt her to know her uncle cared not a whit about her child, but oddly, she felt almost relieved.

Jaime Lannister had given her nothing to love when she was a child in King's Landing, and Minisa would be happier without wondering why her mother's uncle seemed so haughty and aloof. But if ever Jaime Lannister belittled her little girl or hurt her in any way, she did not care if he was her mother's brother—she'd hurt him back a hundredfold.

If Robb should lay abhorrence at one of her uncle's feet, she would have liked it better if he'd laid it at Jaime Lannister's shoes.

But for now, her littlest uncle gave a short wave before he turned his horse around, and moved for the open gate, his small compliment of Lannister guardsmen trotting after him. When the last of the mounted men disappeared passed the great archway and into the north, Sylvia looked to her husband.

"Thank you." She said, black tresses falling over her shoulder. There was a soft noise of iron clanging together that told of the stable boys closing and barring the gates.

"For what?" he asked, his blue eyes coming down to meet hers. She had an odd sort of look on her face, one he easily read as disappointment, though her tone hinted acceptance.

"I'm not a fool. I know you dislike him. I don't know why, and I don't think I could stand it if I knew." She was not blind to her uncle's appearance, or to his dishonourable tendencies. But with his kindness and wit and japes, it was impossible for her heart to be cold to the man who'd done no wrong to her. He was kinder to her than beautiful, golden Uncle Jaime ever had been. So she did not want to hear _why_ Robb disliked him. "But thank you, my lord, for welcoming him." _Though gods know you were happy enough that he shared a whores bed than kept in the castle_ , she thought.

"For you. Only for you." He replied, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her and Mini close. "For a little man, he drinks a lot of ale." He commented as his hand came up to hold Mini's tiny hand in his. His girl's tiny fingers clenched around his large one. The brewers had told him they'd gone through another barrel of the dark bitter brew in the one night the Imp had stayed for supper. He offered her this dry bit of amusement in hopes of making his wife smile. He felt he owed it to her for distrusting her uncle so, for hating the mere sight of him just for the name he bore.

It worked, and his wife laughed against his shoulder. "I heard him once or twice say that northern ale is a hundred times sweeter than northern wine." Such a tiny insult seemed more of a blow coming from a Lannister's mouth.

 _Little half formed monster_ , Robb thought bitingly.

* * *

With Lord Tyrion's departure, Winterfell received another party, this time from the south. Four guards bearing Stark banners came through the gates short days after the Imp left, a small cart towed behind them. They wore solemn looks on their faces, but travel can bring an ache to even a nomad's bones.

But when the furs and blankets were pulled back from the bed of the cart, stillness, a cold horror settled over the yard to find Lady, Sansa's direwolf, lying dead with her fur still bloody from the dirk that pierced her chest. A revolted look was on Robb's face, but there was a cold ire rising in his eyes. Beside him, Grey Wind gave a low, pained whimper, before his distressed yelp sliced through the air. His paws rested on the edge of the cart, as he sniffed at his littermate's cold body.

"Who did this?" Robb demanded of the guardsmen, sounding fierce and lordly. Sylvia moved beside the cart where Grey Wind poked his nose at Lady's leg. When her fingers touched her fur, she found the direwolf was still soft and her brows pulled together. She'd always liked Lady; she was as gentle tempered as Sansa but also playful and obedient. Now the sweet creature was stiff and cold, devoid of all that she had once been.

"Lord Eddard, m'lord. T'other wolf—little lady Arya's—it mauled the prince. It went missing after. The queen demanded justice, and little lady Sansa's wolf was the price."

"The prince?" Sylvia breathed, aghast. She turned to look at the men, her hand leaving Lady's fur. Tommen? That _beast_ mauled little Tommen?

"Aye, m'lady." Replied the guard, his eyes lowering to the ground. Sylvia gasped, her brows narrowing in consternation, and her legs trembled beneath her dress. For a moment she forgot Lady, forgot Sansa and the pain she must feel and her head was filled with thoughts of Tommen. Poor little Tommen, her poor little brother who always seemed so soft and gentle minded, who had rabbits named Lady Bunbun and hated beets and loved blackberries more than anything. How had he been mangled? Where were the guards? Where was her mother, or Uncle Jaime, or her _father_ even? _Why had they not protected him?_

"Is he wounded badly?" she asked evenly, coming towards them.

"No, m'lady. Prince Joffrey still has his arm, and he's still able to use it. It's just a bite." Joffrey? For a moment, she thought she'd heard wrong. Mother would not have let anything happen to Joffrey—his Hound would have struck it down first, no matter whom or what the foe was.

"Joffrey? It was Joffrey the wolf bit?" she asked in a sterner voice. She was appalled that this idea actually relieved her. Tommen had never made her cry, Tommen had never insulted her in her own home and Tommen was not horrible. Tommen deserved no such pain, but Joffrey did.

" _Just a bite_ that cost Lady her life." Robb grumbled, his eyes casting aside to the bed of the cart.

" _It bit_ my brother." She turned her eyes to Robb, shocked that he could even brush away what the wolf had done that cost its sister her life. As though her brother's life meant very little to him. He knew better than she did how powerful a direwolf was, even one still a pup.

"Nymeria would not have attacked unprovoked." He countered evenly.

"And if it had taken his arm off? Would you still move to defend it?" Joffrey was her brother, she couldn't say she loved him, but he was her family, part of her mother and father, part of her whether she liked it or not. He was attacked by an animal and acted as though Joffrey deserved more harm than he'd gotten. No doubt Joffrey had done something to deserve a bite, (she remembered all the times he'd pulled the tails of her kittens and puppies, yanking them about by their necks until she got her mother to stop him), but Robb could at least pretend he hadn't. Did he want the world to shame her for having a nasty little shit for a brother?

"They're too young to tear off any limbs, Syl." Robb replied with a small smile, as though she were jesting in her dismay. Sylvia didn't like it; even though she'd been miserable when first coming here, she never _once_ doubted Robb's devotion to his sisters and brothers. She knew, because she'd been jealous that he cared more for them, than he had for her.

She was a child then, unwanting of Robb, yet she knew she needed his affections to thrive in her new home and she'd been jealous of how much he loved his siblings, and how much they loved him.

Even now, as a grown woman, she still felt a sudden pinch of envy when he lavished his siblings with affection, or when they stared up at him with complete adoration and trust. She'd only ever had that once, with Myrcella, and that had been stolen from her because of this boy, because she was to marry him.

But unlike her, he never had to leave his little brothers and sisters when it came time for them to meet—he had them right here, close to him always, while all she had were portraits, letters and dreams. Her grief for knowing this had pushed Robb away with anger and petty arguments and with him went his siblings and any potential companions for her.

Sansa had been kind and ladylike of course, but those first few months, Sylvia always sensed a kind of allusiveness to her courtesies, until Sylvia began to think all of Sansa's words were practiced and perfected just to placate her.

And all through it, Robb still had his little brothers and sisters clustered around him, and he was never lonely. But just because she was far from her siblings _now_ —separated again for the second time—did not mean she felt no connection to them, and would _never_ mean she was not loyal to them. She hated Joffrey, but the gods made him her brother and with such a title, came an odd feeling of shame if someone besides her tore him down, even in name behind his back.

But it was for her mother, why Sylvia truly felt any sort of fealty to Joffrey at all. Had he been born by someone else...but he was born by Cersei, as she was.

She waited until they were alone, for in private was where a woman could question or scold her husband, if she were so bold. She tried to explain to him that loyalty to her kin went beyond love, and was rooted in blood. Love was not what determined loyalty. As it came down to it, her mother's words best fit in what she tried to explain: she told him that a shame to Joffrey was a shame to her.

"What?" Robb asked, bewildered. "His shame is _his_ to bear alone. Do not take his embarrassment as yours." He seemed so very sure, the firelight creating dancing shadows on the frown which pulled his brows down.

 _Why doesn't he understand_ , she wondered impatiently _._ "But it _does_. I...can't speak out against Joffrey in front of outside eyes. He and I came from the same place. To call him a cruel little prick is to suggest I am the same, only better at hiding it." Mother once called her a lion, who would not endure the ridicule of sheep.

He sighed, his hands coming to rest on her arms, and she was torn between shaking him off and stepping closer to curl against him. "Everyone knows you are nothing like _him_ , Syl. Anyway, you are married to _me_. When we vowed to each other, you renounced your old house, and came into mine. You are a _Stark_. Your brother is a shame to himself and he will not pull you low. Not anymore."

 _But I was born a Baratheon_ , she thought. A stag of Storms End, daughter of King Robert and Queen Cersei of House Lannister. _I was not born in the north, in the cold, in the snow and ice. I was born a princess, and a princess, I will die._

It was the defiant part of her that argued this. It was the part that tossed her harp out the window to watch the awful thing smash to pieces against the rocks below. It was the part asked to take up archery. It was the part that went to the north with feet dug into the earth. It was what had her make plans to run away back to the Capitol the first few months she was here.

And she knew all of that. She knew what happened in House Baratheon was of no concern of hers any longer, and she was happy for it. She had no interest in her Uncle Stannis' lack of a male heir, or who her little cousin Shireen would marry. She had no need to think of whom Tommen or Myrcella should wed. She didn't have to choose a side if someone created strife, nor did she have added pressure to birth a son so he would inherit Baratheon holdfasts.

"I know." She admitted gently. "But I can't just sever my ties all together—"

"You don't have to. It was done for you when we married." He countered his mouth pressing into a hard line. Why was he so stern? Did she annoy him for some daft reason?

She looked up at him, brows narrowed at his tone. "Was I not _someone_ before we wed? Do you imagine it's as easy as snipping a threat with sheers?" He was quiet, his eyes boring down into hers and she knew he knew it was not nearly as simple as that. She sighed. "What is it exactly you expect of me?" she was almost afraid to know the answer, but she dared him to voice it. If he would order her to do something which he knew would cause her pain, then let him voice it.

"I want you to remember that you are a Stark now. You have no need to tie yourself in knots over them."

He saw her bite her lip for a second, before replying, "Are you telling me to _disregard_ them entirely?" she studied his face intently, fearing to find truth written between the lines and curves of the face she loved so dearly.

To her shock, he didn't deny it. "What has Joffrey ever done in his life to earn your loyalty? Do you enjoy being tortured and berated?" his voice rose with his frustration. His words had been intended to maim, and it had done just that. Joffrey hated her, and never once had he given her anything to love. Robb grew up with a gaggle of siblings who love him, siblings who adored him, who would do anything to keep his name clean.

He would _never_ understand any sort of loyalty that didn't come with love or affection. In a way, she felt richer than him for that.

She pushed his arms off her, her perfected glare nearly made him flinch back. "We have the same mother. The same father." She hissed. "It's for _them_ , why I will defend that little prick." She felt wicked for calling Joffrey such awful names. It was thrilling.

Once, as a little girl, she'd called Joffrey a "sorry pathetic little cunt" to his face, and even though he'd shoved her down and called her names, nothing waned the satisfaction she felt at seeing his shock that she would _dare_ talk back to him. He'd run to tell father, and no punishment came. Then he ran to tell mother, and three strikes to her palms with a wooden rod was her punishment. It was the worst punishment Cersei ever delivered on her, and Sylvia never insulted her brother to his face again.

Something sad came into Robb's eyes then. "Sylvia...you dimmed when they were here." He said.

"What?" she huffed, her arms coming to cross over her chest and her fingers clenched over the cotton covering her arms.

"You...you went to every dinner with them like you were going to the stocks. You never questioned your mother. They make you small."

A sudden flare of hurt struck her heart, spreading to the tips of her fingers and toes, and all she could do for a moment was look at him. Small? He thought her...small? Was she nothing but a wisp of a girl compared to her beautiful, golden siblings, under her beautiful golden mother? Did he find her lacking now that he had other southerners to compare her to? In the Capitol, others had found her lacking. Others had even thought her mad—

 _No_ , she thought at once. _No. Robb loves no one else but me, he's my husband; it's only for me, why he thinks of south_.

But...small?

"You don't understand what it is you're talking about, and why would you?" she hated the way her voice wavered a little. She'd win this argument—Robb could not stand her tears. But she didn't want to win out of pity. She wanted to win because she was _right_! "You don't _know_ them. You don't _want_ to know them." She clenched her jaw. "You-you don't even like Tyrion for just the fact that he's ugly. I hate Joffrey—I _hate_ him, but I can't—"

He stopped her here, his arms once more coming to her arms and after a moment, one traveled to her hair. "Alright, Syl. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." She sighed, her shoulders dropping. "What I'm saying is: you don't need to worry over Joffrey and his deeds. You're my wife. You're a Stark. Their doing can't touch you here."

She gave him a sad smile. "I could be in the Red Waste, and somehow it would reach me. Maybe on a vulture. Or a Dothraki screamer." She added dryly.

Robb grinned. "I'm sorry." He said again, pulling her close so her head came under his chin.

Sylvia hummed, still stiff against him. She always loved it when Robb apologized. It was an odd thing to love. It was something she'd never really heard as a girl. "Promise you won't insult Joffrey in public. If you do, I'll be compelled to defend him, even if you're right." she looked up at him.

"Alright. I promise." The vow left a bitter taste in his mouth.

She huffed sharply against his neck, her breath batting against his skin. "They're my family, Robb." She said evenly. "I didn't choose them anymore than you chose yours."

He did not reply. It was true, but his family did not shove little boys from towers under the trust of the Guest Right. Robb felt his arms constrict around her. The Lannisters were filth, murderous, and dangerous. He wanted to tell her again, for the thousandth time all that he knew. About Bran. About his mother. About how afraid he was. He wanted to keep her from that filth, fearful that if she stepped into it, she would never step out.

She deserved the truth, no matter how badly it would hurt her. She deserved to know what she defended so it would not burn her when they deceived her.

She had to know—he couldn't fight this fight without her.

Or, at least, he didn't want to.

* * *

Lady was buried in the crypts on Winterfell, although Sylvia had thought the godswood to be a prettier and happier place to lay the wolf to rest.

"No," said Robb with a look in his eye that seemed to age him. "She was special. She deserves the ancient crypts."

When the guards further explained what had happened on the road, it was all Sylvia could do to keep herself from shoving the contents of the nearest table down onto the floor in frustration.

They'd explained the official story, of how Sansa and the prince had been walking, when they happened upon Arya and some lowborn boy. They said nothing of how it happened, only that suddenly, Arya struck Joffrey with a branch and set her wolf on him.

Sylvia knew Arya to be wild, unladylike and rough. But she did not _think_ that she would strike her sister's intended, and her good-sister's own brother for no reason. But what reason was there? She also knew how rotten, how cruel Joffrey could be and Arya had less restraint than she did. But gods be merciful, what was _Arya thinking?_ Striking the prince, striking _Joffrey_ , only meant something terrible to happen. And it had. Nymeria was gone to the wild, and Lady was dead.

To the world, she would be without opinion—she would say nothing of the matter, only of the result. But in her heart, Sylvia would hope Joffrey's wounds festered, would hope his arm forever disfigured and hope he never held a sword again. No matter what had happened, Lady hadn't deserved to pay the price of life. _And_ , she thought, _I would have liked to be the first to throttle Joffrey with a branch and knock him on his polished arse_.

But it had been her mother to suggest that Lady die, and Sylvia did not know how her mother could order such a cruel thing to be done to the Stark girls—to _Sansa_ who would wed her son. Joffrey must not love Sansa as much as he seemed to, if he did nothing to spare her wolf. Lady was good, she hadn't deserved such a painful, bloody end to satisfy a worthless little shit's temper and her mother's wroth.

But then, the fierce motherly part of her reasoned, had it been Mini who'd been mauled, Sylvia might have held the knife herself. She did not feel as wretched for thinking that, because she knew most mothers would do the same. Even Lady Catelyn herself.

* * *

Weeks passed them by without another incident, and Sylvia was happy for the quiet.

A raven had come with the new moon's turn, the crimson seal of House Lannister sealing the paper closed. Eagerly, she opened it, wondering who from her mother's house was calling on her. Perhaps it was her cousins, distant strangers though they were. But when she tore open the wax seal, she found that it was from her own mother, inviting her once more to visit her in King's Landing, to present Minisa to the court, and show her husband the glamour of court life.

Although touched by the generous offer of royal hospitality, and the promise of private apartments to reside in for however long they wished, court life was not something she relished in visiting. She loved her home in the south, but had her mother forgotten what life was like for _her_ at court? Robb's eyes looked south and recoiled. But Mini would love the Capitol. She'd love the warmth because it would mean she could crawl around as she wished without her mother worrying that she was getting too cold. She'd love the flowers, and the pretty birds and the seashells that could be found in the merchant's stalls.

But it was impossible to go now. She and Robb's duties had truly solidified when Lady Catelyn rode off, and Bran was not fit for travel. Neither she, nor Robb would leave the boy at Winterfell alone while they flounced away on an adventure, leaving him alone and vulnerable.

The letter she wrote back to her mother was filled with sweet thanks and polished courtesies, but the quill felt heavy in her hand. It had been so long since she was home, and she thought often of the life she'd once had in the Red Keep. Her life was here now, but too often her thoughts traveled to the Red Keep, wondering of its red brick halls, and grand towers, the shimmering blue waters with boats and skiffs gliding across it, and all the jewels and finery available from one request.

One morning, a fortnight after her mother's letter arrived, she awoke to the morning light streaming through the cracks in the shutters. Foggy remnants of her dreams faded off into obscurity, and she slowly became aware of the fact that her leg had wormed itself between her husband's, and when she tried stretching, her hand bumped into his back.

Her fingers flattened against the warm, smooth skin of her husband's back, feeling him breathe, feeling his heartbeat. He almost never wore a nightshirt to bed, unless the summer snows were falling and a chill swept through the castle. Those nights he would leave the fire burning through the night, and have extra blankets brought to her because he knew she'd freeze otherwise and in return for his thoughtfulness, Sylvia would commission the cooks to prepare Robb's favorite meal—mutton stew and a loaf of brown bread with butter—to thank him.

It was a small gesture, but their life together was built on small gestures, all starting from when he'd saved her from embarrassment during her first lesson with him and Maester Luwin.

 _He's a good husband_ , she thought sleepily. When Mini came, the summer snows lost their magic and appeal, and for a few mad weeks, all she saw when she looked at them was a terrible freezing death come for her fragile child.

Robb had let her bring the babe into bed with them, placing Mini between them so she'd be warm and safe and protected from the cold. But soon after, Mini began to whine and whimper and cry, stretching and fidgeting and working herself into a tantrum, and she'd only calm when her wrappings were pulled away and the cool air batted over her too warm skin. After a couple stressful weeks of nearly sleepless nights, they realized that Mini enjoyed a touch of cold. Anything too warm would bring on fussing.

Knowing this made Sylvia wonder if she'd have anything in common with her own daughter besides the likeness of the Baratheons. Would she be a southerner to even Mini? Maybe in the south things would be different. Her daughter was still half of her; there was a chance she would do well in the warm climate of the south.

A deep garbled breath from the man beside her made her eyes flutter open, her brows pulling down in the soft light of day. She thanked the gods that she was a heavier sleeper than her husband, which spared her from hearing him snore. He usually woke before her, some deeply engrained habit from his boyhood making him rise, while her girlhood of sleeping late fashioned her into a late riser.

If she were more aware, she might have wondered what made him sleep so late, but instead she just snuggled deeper into the warm respite she'd fashioned.

For a time, Sylvia let herself linger between wakefulness and sleep, her thoughts wandering about without purpose or reason. Outside, she could hear the castle waking with the sun, horses in their stables, blowing and nickering at the stable hands for feed.

 _A ride_ , she thought dimly, _when was the last time I rode?_ At once, she remembered riding a month after Mini came, mostly because she was still uncomfortable with sitting on the hard saddle after the lower half of her brought forth a child with blood and pain. But that couldn't be the last time; it was so long ago. Riding was always so relaxing, though the pain of the saddle was quite wretched. Someone should really create a comfier saddle.

Somewhere in the middle of her blurry thoughts, Robb's breathing had changed, becoming more regular and shorter. She felt his legs shift over hers, slowly disentangling himself so he could shift, and roll onto his back. He was still a long time, his breathing steady and soft, and she knew he was awake, knew he was watching her, wondering if he should wake her and pull her close or let her sleep. She wasn't moved one way or the other, and continued to dance with sleep, awaiting his choice, until, finally, she heard him sigh and move to get up.

He was half way to the desk when he heard her speak. "Where are you going?" she murmured sleepily.

"Just to get some water." He replied softly, watching her prop up on her elbows, her single black braid hanging messily over her shoulder, tussled and fuzzy from sleep. She looked beautiful.

She gave a small nod before yawning and falling back on the bed. He turned back to the desk, filled his cup with water and when he drank, the icy liquid chilled down his throat, jarring him and pulling him farther from sleep.

He'd dreamed of Grey Wind again. He'd dreamed he _was_ Grey Wind and when he woke up, he could still taste blood in his mouth from his kill. It was equal parts fascinating and unnerving to him, and he'd laid awake a long time just looking at his wife, because she was what was real, she was _there_.

Since his wolf had gotten too big and too restless to remain in the castle at night, Robb had leased him and his two brothers out into the godswood. And though Mini missed her companion sleeping protectively by her side, the direwolf was happier in the expanse of the godswood.

But since that first night, over a month ago, he'd had the same dream almost every night. He could feel the dirt beneath him, feel the chill of the night air on his nose, smell the trees, and smell the murky water nearby, smell the musk of prey on the breeze. And beside him, there was Shaggy and Summer, prowling low to the ground, nipping at his heels playfully, or lunging for their next meal ahead of them.

They were not _bad_ dreams, but their vividness startled him, and often he awoke with some lingering feeling from his dreams. Either it was a racing heart from a run, the taste of blood in his mouth, or the smell of the thicket in his nose, which remained to him when he woke up in his dark chambers.

When he returned to bed, he pulled Sylvia close. They were only dreams. As a boy, he'd wanted to be a wolf (much like Rickon, though he'd only ever told Jon), and now that he had one, those old fantasies had re-emerged. His arm reached up so he could twist his fingers into the loose strands coming from his wife's braid. He'd never told Sylvia—they were only dreams after all. But the need to tell her had been growing since the first night, and he felt it had finally reached its height.

"I had a strange dream." He blurted.

She sighed against him sleepily, her breath puffing against his neck. "What was it?"

"I...dreamed I was a wolf."

"A wolf?"

"Yes. Paws and all." He joked. Syl smiled.

"Rickon would love to be a wolf. I caught him the other day howling with Shaggy."

"I know." She'd told him already, and they'd shared a laugh over a cup of wine.

She was quiet for a beat. "What were you doing as a wolf?"

He paused. "Hunting." He managed.

She grimaced. "How awful. I dreamed once I was a rabbit. All I did was eat cake."

He gave a short laugh. "Must have been a good dream." He wished in his dreams all he ate was cake.

"It was." Then they were quiet a long time, Robb's fingers continuing the same lulling motions in her hair.

He almost thought she were back asleep, when she suddenly lurched up, the top of her head knocking against his jaw and clacking his teeth together in a painful mash. She didn't seem jarred as he did, and only exclaimed, "Bran's saddle will be ready today!" and looked back at her husband who still cradled his aching jaw, a bright smile still spread over her lips.


	20. A Man of Honour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn fucks everyone up :/

**Chapter 17: A Man of Honour**

News came swift as wind to King's Landing of the Imp's kidnapping; it spread through the streets and up into the Red Keep like sickness, and by sunset, every peddler in murky depths of King's Landing knew of Catelyn Stark's treason.

Cersei's dainty slippered feet clacked loudly against the red brick as she strode down the hall, her guards rushing to keep up behind her. The queen's long golden mane laid flat against her back, kept out of her face by two little twists at her temples, and her green lace and silk gown complimented her burning eyes.

The queen had never been so baffled in her life by another person's idiocy, but the disbelief quickly melted away to rage and indignation. By what right did they dare challenge the lion? She was the queen, mother of the heir to the throne, daughter of Tywin, wealthiest woman in all the kingdoms—and Catelyn Stark had the gall to cross her.

Lady Stark had apparently claimed that Tyrion had issued an attempt on her crippled son's life, and had then apprehended him at a tavern she was at for some stupid reason. It was only later that the queen learned that Catelyn had been in the _Capitol_ not fortnight before—there to see her husband and plot this treason, no doubt.

Cersei burned. She liked being three steps ahead of her enemies, and now to know that a scheming little shewolf had been in her grasp not a month ago, only to be missed, filled her with ire. Her _friend_ in the north was inept, it would seem, and it was in Cersei's mind to open the girl's throat and leave her body to rot in a ditch.

But first things first. She drew her thoughts back.

The dried up husk that was the Lady of the North, had then gone on to smuggle the Imp back to the cold waste she'd emerged from. This was folly. The Stark boy claimed he remembered nothing of the day he fell, and she and Jaime had agreed that sending someone to kill him would have only stirred the settling dust. He'd die on his own, sooner or later.

It made no matter to her if Tyrion had sought to murder the boy, for whatever monstrous reasons he had, but what troubled her most was that he'd gotten himself captured. By a fish and a handful of tavern drunkards. Father will be furious, and everyone knew Tywin Lannister's rage was far worse than anything Robert Baratheon's famous fury could conjure.

He'd show them all—the Starks, the small folk, the Realm, the gods—what it meant to cross a lion.

When Cersei climbed the last steps leading to the Hand's Tower, she shoved open the door, without care of disturbing the man inside, and paused, startled to see her fat husband filling the room. Her mouth tightened. Where else would he be, if not at Ned Stark's side when he was maimed? He loved the fool sleeping in that bed, more than he'd _ever_ loved her.

The queen felt a fresh surge of contempt for Ned Stark rise within her heart.

Before she could speak, Robert fixed her with a dark glare. "Quiet woman. I know what you've come to say and I'll not hear it _spewing_ from your lying mouth."

"Well perhaps you'd like to hear it from my father's." She countered with a low hiss, gliding into the solar. "And explain to him how the _former_ Hand of the King, goes about abducting his queen's brother and then _attacking_ the other?" her voice echoed down the steps of the tower, making her guards shift anxiously.

Jaime's brawl with Ned Stark had only fanned the flame of rage in her heart, because while she cared for her family's legacy at least half as much as her father, she loved Jaime _more_. To know that this dirty northerner had raised arms to her twin with the intent to maim him, made her want to tear Ned Stark apart. She'd take up a sword to defend Jaime in a heartbeat, even though he wouldn't need it.

The double slight against her house would not pass without impunity. Honour and pride would be restored, else it would be war.

Ned Stark's friendship with Robert made him too bold; he extended his power beyond proper limits, and believed himself _untouchable_ with the king as his shield. But Robert was only as strong as her father _allowed_ him to be. He was weak for wine and food and flesh, weak for the gold which paid for it all. And it was House Lannister who provided the gold.

Only Tywin Lannister was unbreakable and he was no friend of Lord Stark's.

"You'll always run back to your father when you want your way. What will you do when Tywin Lannister is rotting in the ground?" he asked cruelly.

_Then it will be I who they all fear_ , Cersei thought to herself, _and you shall be nothing but dust in a tomb, remembered only for your rebellion and not your pitiful rule_.

"Catelyn Stark will release that little shit back to your father, and that will be the end of it!" he bellowed. Robert always liked to brush things off so he would not have to think about them for long. He liked to think his word was final, though the issue never departed entirely. He'd done the same with that wolf bitch who'd mauled her boy—he thought it was ended because Sansa's wolf was dead, but she still wanted the youngest Stark girl punished properly for setting her beast on Joff.

Slowly, Lord Stark began to stir, his bleary eyes blinked open to stare hazily at the monarchs—first the queen, and then the king.

His first words were apologies for not being able to rise in salute to the king. Cersei could have scoffed. Burying his deeds with flattery was a cowardly trick. Robert _adored_ flattery. Perhaps this was why he loved his whores so dearly.

"Do you know what your wife has done?" the queen enquired. How could he not? Catelyn Stark fawned on her husband, simpering and sharing every dastardly little secret she had with him. Sylvia had told her that they were quite close, never apart for more than a month.

"She did nothing I did not command." Lord Eddard defended sternly, a little waver in his voice that was brought by pain.

"Who'd have thought she'd have it in her?" Robert said dryly. Catelyn was loyal to her husband, but neither monarch believed that Eddard had commanded her to take the Imp. Lord Stark was no fool. Surely he would have known to seize Tyrion while he was still in the Capitol would lead to this. Lady Stark was an idiot.

If that woman thought she could force them into submission because her family had Sylvia sitting pretty in the north, she could think again. _This would not be true for long_ , she promised herself. Her daughter would not be used as a shield. She would not be made to choose between her family and justice.

"By what right _dare_ you lay hands on my blood?" Cersei seethed, her green eyes burning as hot as wildfire.

"I am the King's Hand, charged with keeping the peace." Lord Stark countered with a raised voice.

"You _were_ the King's Hand. And now you shall be held accountable!" she wanted justice for this offense. The dust was resettling after what happened with the Stark boy, only to have been stirred again when the wolf mauled Joff. The Starks wrought nothing but trouble to the south, with their wildness and unwelcome inquiries. But she could have scared him, seduced him, paid him more gold then he could imagine, and Lord Stark would quieten. She had no fear of Eddard Stark. She wouldn't have struck unless he tread where he should not have, and so far, all he had were the last words of a dead man, and questions without answer.

"Enough! Both of you shut your mouths!" Robert roared. They were quiet, the queen glaring at him, while Ned watched Robert. "Catelyn will release Tyrion and you will make your peace with Jaime!"

"He _butchered_ my men." countered the injured lord.

Cersei scoffed softly. It was a small price to pay for his insult. His men—those noble, honourable, good men—were killed on whorehouse steps. How dare a man like Eddard Stark claim to be honourable when Jaime found him leaving a brothel? He had a bastard son, living under his own roof, and yet Robert still claimed he was the best man he knew. What did Robert know of great men? Robert's "great man" had attacked her brother.

"Lord Stark was returning drunk from a whorehouse when his men _attacked_ Jaime." The queen relayed to her husband, some small blossom of hope in her chest desiring to see Robert's love for the northerner turn sour at learning this.

Alas. Robert inclined his head to her and barked, "Quiet woman!"

"J-Jaime has fled the city." Sounded the man from the bed. For a moment, Cersei was surprised he knew this. Jaime must have said something to him, she figured. She wished he had at least told her that when she saw him last. "Give me leave to bring him back to justice."

To her horror, Robert was silent, seeming to consider this absurdity. Justice would be done when Catelyn Stark was brought to the Capitol, bound and gagged with the Imp waddling behind.

"I took you for a _king_." She hissed, eyeing the black and grey wiry mess of his hair. Once she'd loved that hair, and had dreamed that her children would have it. Once, and no longer.

"Hold your tongue." Her husband ordered lowly.

"He's attacked one of my brothers and abducted the other. I should wear the armour and you the gown." She bit out. Even as a woman, she was a hundred times the man he would _ever_ be. She was a better politician, a better monarch, a better parent that he could ever dream to be. But before the Starks came into the Keep, she'd known Robert was strong enough to do what needed to be done. Now he bowed to the will of some fool northerner.

Robert's slap was just as painful as it had always been, and for just a moment, her heart clenched. It had been a while since the last time, over a year in fact. It still hurt the same. But she would not be ashamed or show him tears. It was what he wanted; he wanted her to hobble away like a pathetic creature of tears and frailty. She would _never_ give him what he desired _again_. This mark on her face was Robert's sin, coloured in purple and blue, and she would _not_ turn away.

The queen collected herself, pulling her shoulders back and staring her husband in the face. "I shall wear this like a badge of honour." She said.

Robert drew in close, his stance threatening and his voice low and dangerous. "Wear it in silence, or I'll honour you again."

When she glanced back at Lord Stark, his face was hard, almost as though he grimly approved of Robert's threat. _Yes_ , she thought coldly as the door slammed behind her. _A man of honour indeed._

She knew now for certain the Starks could not be trusted. Even with Lord Stark's daughters in her pocket, he still plotted as though she could and would do nothing to defend her family. But she needed _all_ his playing pieces in her possession before she would feel safe. That included her daughter.

After the brawl, Jaime had come to her chambers, only to tell her he was leaving to meet with their father at the Rock. By the time word reached the west, Tywin Lannister will have gathered the force of the westerlands against the riverlands, and Jaime wanted to be there when they got Tyrion back.

At first, she hadn't heard him, and had only seen the blood on his fine leathers and velvets, fearing the very worst.

"Are you hurt?" she'd asked him urgently, her hands coming to her twin's arms to inspect him, not minding the blood which stained her hands.

"The Starks fight like half drunken pig farmers." Jaime said briskly.

Her hands reached for his hair, and fear made her fingers clench in the spun gold strands. "You shouldn't have, Jaime. You should have left him to me."

"They _have Tyrion—"_

"I don't _care_ about Tyrion! What about Sylvia? I know you don't love her, but she's my _daughter_." The queen spoke in rushed voice, one full of fear and worry. It pained her to say aloud that her lover hated her daughter, but it was the truth wasn't it? No matter how Jaime loved her, he could never love Sylvia. He could hardly tolerate her. Jaime moved to reassure her, his arms tightening around her and pressing her hard against his chest.

"The Starks know that if they harm her, it will be war. No matter if they hurt Tyrion or return him, they will be decimated." A surge of love rose inside her at hearing his comforting words. He hated her little doe, and yet, for his twin, he'd kill for her. _Yes_ , she'd thought dizzily. _I'd tear their House apart from the roots, burn their stronghold to ashes and cinders, and erase the name Stark from history._

"I want her back, Jaime." She whispered against his neck. She kissed his neck once. "Please, Jaime. Please, please, _please_ , my sweet twin. I want her back." She moved in his arms, her nose rubbing over his pulse point. "I fear for her. She isn't safe there, with _them_. I must keep her safe." His sister pulled away from him then, leaving the smallest bit of space between them, just enough so she could tilt her head up and look at him with wide, worried eyes. He felt her lips brush his chin. "Return her to me, Jaime. Bring her back home for me."

"Cersei—" he wanted to tell her no. It was impossible. What was he to do? March on Winterfell, slaughter its people and take Sylvia Baratheon? And why would he ever want to bring her here, where he would have to see her every day? He wanted the girl gone from memory, to forget that Cersei had ever had a child of Robert's.

"Please Jaime. Please. I can _never_ be happy without her here, knowing she's with _them_." She continued. Suddenly, Jaime was fearful she was telling him the truth. She'd never been particularly happy the girl was away with the Starks, but it had been peaceful then. She'd never have another decent night's rest if Sylvia was used as a pawn. He had seen the way his sister had crumbled when her first born died—the way she screamed, cried, the way she'd seemed so _hollow._

Nothing he'd said or done had eased the hurt, and Jaime would die before he allowed that to happen a second time. Even though it would mean bringing _that_ girl back here, he would do it. For Cersei. Maybe he could convince his sweet sister that the girl would be happier in Casterly Rock, where their father could look after her. She certainly couldn't live under her mother's shadow forever.

"Alright," he whispered to Cersei. "I will bring her home." Her smile shone bright with relief and Jaime could not resist the urge to kiss her even if he wanted to.

Not an hour later, Jaime Lannister rode away from the Red Keep, off to the west where he would join with his father.

* * *

Sylvia and the rest of the castle waved Robb, Theon and Bran off at Winterfell's gates, as though they were leaving for some diplomatic mission which would keep them away from home for weeks. In truth, they were only riding for the Wolf's Wood and normally this wouldn't have brought on much pomp, but Bran in his new saddle was a sight long awaited. The entirety of Winterfell loved Bran, and to see him out again, astride his horse with a smile on his face brought joy to the very heart of Winterfell.

As they rode through the gates, Bran urging his gelding to a brisk trot, the southern woman recalled the cold, tactless words her father had spoken about lame horses and broken children. When she remembered how her mother had told her not to hope for Bran, her ears burned and anger stirred in her belly. They'd spoken without knowing how stubborn Bran really was.

He was alive. He had lived and was riding his horse like any other boy, and she longed for her family to see him and be _shamed_ that they'd ever doubted Bran or Maester Luwin. _Let them both eat their words_ , she thought smugly, _and_ _let Joffrey choke on them_.

_But_ , another, doubtful, part of her whispered, _other boys do not need to be harnessed into their saddle_.

Robb kissed her cheek tenderly, and stroked Mini's hand with his finger before he mounted. There was a joy in his eyes and lightness to his movements that brought joy to her heart. Her husband had been heavy as of late, weighed down by his duties as Lord of Winterfell, and as a kind of father to Bran and Rickon, as well as Mini. She hoped this feeling lasted forever.

She wished she could go with them, letting the wind blow her hair out behind her, working through every strand and chilling her to the bone. She hated the cold, but the cold through her hair and the heat of a horse beneath her, Sylvia felt free. But...

Mini began to give soft, impatient groans as the men disappeared behind the trees.

...her daughter was getting fussy.

Adjusting her grip around the babe, Sylvia turned away. The crowd of Winterfell inhabitants parted for their young Lady as she made her way back inside the coverage of the castle. Minisa squirmed and whined in her arms, stretching so forcefully that Sylvia had to readjust her three times, and each time, Mini's whines grew closer to squawks.

By the time Sylvia reached her Lady's Solar, the child had begun to cry.

High, long drawn out howls rung in her ear and Sylvia didn't know what to do with her. There was no reason for her to cry this hard, because she'd only just eaten, she wasn't soiled, and she didn't feel too cold. She began to feel rather...useless. What sort of mother didn't know what to do with their baby?

In desperation, Sylvia unbound the babe from her cottons and furs and set her on the bear skin rug before the fire. But even that did not calm her. Mini wailed, her mouth opening to reveal her tiny white teeth, her cheeks reddening and tears gathering in her eyes. Sylvia hauled her up again; stroking her onyx curls in an attempt to sooth her child.

After a few failed attempts of rocking, hushing, offers of toys and feeding, Sylvia set off to the Maester's Tower, frustration rising like fire in her belly. There was something the matter with her girl, and she had to find out what it was.

Lady Sylvia had always been so very worried about her child, even before the girl had been born. When the girl finally did come into the world, lively and healthy, the little lady had not let the septa's touch the baby, even to clean her off. She'd snapped at them when they insisted it was not proper of her to hold a newly born child, still bloody from birth, to her breast.

In those first few moments, Sylvia became a protective lioness which would have made her mother proud to behold. She'd growled at the attending septas to give her a clean cloth so she could clear away the mess herself and she ordered them out as soon as the afterbirth had come away. As time went on, Sylvia loosened her grip on her fear, and let her daughter be as other children. But every time the babe wept for reasons natural to children—belly aches, new teeth coming through, rashes, and the like...Sylvia's fear held steady, always fearful death had returned for her daughter.

As the door closed behind her, she looked to find that her sworn shield had been dutifully standing watch outside her door. She'd thought he'd gone to attend his own business after seeing Robb and the others ride off, but now she was very glad he hadn't. Mini loved Fredrik.

The princess sagged in relief. "Oh, Fredrik." She held her daughter out to him. "Can you take her a while? She's been wailing in my ear for too long."

"Motherhood will make you deaf before long." Her old knight joked to her, easily taking the squalling baby into his arms without so much as a flinch.

Mini ceased her cries nearly at once, her little hand reaching up to rub against the bristly orange and white stubble of Fredrik's beard. Sylvia narrowed her eyes. " _Now_ you stop," she huffed at her daughter. Minisa only smiled at her mother, her little hand clenching against the knight's chin, as though to say "look what I've found, mother!"

"She must have missed you." Over the last few days, her old knight had been preoccupied with his kitchen wench—Calla or Cara, something or other. While she was happy Fredrik was finding some happiness with a woman of his own (he'd never been married, and had no children that he talked about), she felt the oddest sense of annoyance grow within her, as he spent more time with that woman.

Fredrick Ravenback had always been _her_ knight. No one else had mattered to him but her and he'd always protected her—from _anything_ , even things that wouldn't draw blood. He'd been her only friend for the longest time; he'd seen her at the very worst, her very best, and all the times in between. He'd never spoken ill of her or lied to her, he'd never abandoned or misled her. He'd been _hers_ since she was three, and she was hard pressed to...give him up.

It seemed unthinkable that he would not be there whenever she needed him. Would all his love and loyalty belong to her now, his kitchen wench? Would he show a hundred times more devotion, because Calla or Cara was the one he _chose_ , not the one he was _saddled_ with? She could feel herself growing upset, her belly twisting.

"She must have missed pinching me." The knight grumbled as Mini's little fingers squeezed his face again.

"You should visit her more often. I know she would adore the company."

If he caught her meaning, he did not show it. "You ought to give her some brothers." Ser Fredrik gave Mini a rare smile, adjusting her a little. " _Those_ will keep her busy until the day she weds."

Sylvia was quiet, feeling embarrassment crawl over her skin, leaving its red mark on her neck and cheeks. She and Robb hadn't discussed more children, but he almost always pulled out just before his end and finished on her belly. That suited her just fine—in fact she even _enjoyed_ it, as deplorable and vulgar as it was. But she knew, at some point in the future, the north would look to her for Robb's heir, a boy of ice and steel who would inherit Winterfell when Robb was gone.

Oh she would give Robb ten sons, and gladly too, but she was wary. It had taken her over a year to conceive Mini, and then she'd nearly lost her child in the seventh month. After that, she'd been all but shackled to her bed for the remainder of her pregnancy, only permitted to get up to make use to the chamber pots. Of course, she'd eventually gotten so bored and so _sore_ that she'd disobeyed and stood to walk about the room. That fear and that complete and utter boredom had been a hell she had no wish to endure again.

And why would she need brothers so soon when she had Fredrik and Grey Wind to play with?

The princess gave her shield a tight grin. "When will little Ravenback boys run through the halls?" she asked, hoping to make him as uncomfortable as he'd made her.

Instead, to her surprise, he laughed. "Not for a long while yet, my lady." She asked him once if he had children and he'd brushed her off, saying Ravenback boys caused more trouble than they were worth. "I'd rather not have a slew of bastards run under your dainty little feet."

Her toes clenched inside her toes. She'd taken to this habit as a child, because as a girl she was berated whenever she flinched or fidgeted. _It was not proper of a princess..._

Did this woman he seemed so fond of, change his mind on children of his own? A heart could not be changed on a moon's turn. This kitchen wench would surely lure him away and stick him with a boring life he would likely come to regret. Fredrik was not a craven, and he'd never leave any children he'd sired, so he'd be trapped with her and her brood. She would have to meet her soon, this woman of his, to know if she were the right sort of woman who _deserved_ Fredrik's adoration. What could a damned kitchen wench offer him? Skills beneath the sheets? Fredrik deserved more.

"Best watch yourself with that woman, ser." She advised gently. "You know how serving wenches can be." Fredrik's smile faded, a sternness coming into his eyes as he regarded his charge.

"Not every serving wench would lay down for a flash of coin, Sylvia." He replied boldly.

"They did for my father." She replied with rising fervour. They all had. Even the ones she'd trusted would dishonour her mother by night and serve her in the day. She'd learned quite a while ago not to expect much from serving wenches and to distrust them almost inherently.

"Your father is the king. There are few women brave enough to deny the king what he wants." Countered the knight.

Sylvia looked away, unable to deny this. But her father would not have forced a woman, she knew.

"Carry her to the Maester's Tower." She ordered stiffly. Fredrik nodded. When Sylvia was upset with him she hardened herself to him, treating him as she would any other servant. It stung him more than it should have.

* * *

By midday, the three who'd set off for the Wolf's Wood had returned to the castle, only now there was a fourth, a wildling woman, slung over Bran's horse. She was a woman; she'd yielded, so he'd spared her. He'd offered the others the same, fair chance, and they'd attacked.

Bran had ridden too far off—his excitement drawing him away from the path and away from his brother and foster brother, deeper into the woods where a Night's Watch deserter and three wildlings prowled. They'd tried to strip the boy of his horse and all the finery he possessed, and when Robb had shown himself, they bared their teeth, as though that would daunt him.

When they were dead, the last man standing had drawn a knife under Bran's neck, and Robb could do nothing but drop his sword, hoping that once the traitor got what he wanted, he would release him. He'd seen Bran nearly die too many times. His little brother's life was too precious to gamble.

It was Theon who'd put an end to the standoff, Theon who sent an arrow through the deserter. An odd sense of indignation swept through Robb to remember it, almost like embarrassment. Robb was the one meant to protect Bran, and he'd all but failed _again_. Sylvia had given him assurances and expressed her faith in his ability to protect their family, and now he felt as though her trust had been misplaced. But Theon could have missed—his arrow could have been too low, or the deserter's arm could have jerked and sliced Bran open.

He'd berated the ward for his carelessness, but it didn't fade the feeling of failure.

The anger swirling in Robb's gut, burned down to a simmer as they rode on, but part of him still wanted to set fire to Theon's finely crafted oak wood bow and all its arrows. He'd rather Theon take up a womanly craft than see him with a damned bow again.

Bran rode with him, and his face was hidden when Robb peered to look at him. The crippled boy had seen the entire thing—every bloody slash, every stab, and he'd been quiet. He must be more terrified than he let on. How could he not be? But Robb wished he would say something. _Anything_.

Coming through Winterfell's gates, Robb felt at ease again and loosened the grip on his reigns. Within the walls of ancient stone fortress, Robb was home. There were few things sweeter in life than returning home when you are afraid. It is a feeling of comfort, of release, that could not be replicated. It was not simply a holdfast to Robb—it was much more.

Guiding his gelding towards the stables, his eyes caught the brightness of a white mink fur and he found Sylvia, standing before the entrance to the castle, just beyond the stable yard. Her hands were clasped under her breasts, her gloved fingers wringing together, and he figured she'd probably been worried all the time they'd been gone. Robb hated to come back to her and tell her that her fears had been right.

Despite the foul truths he would relay to her soon, something inside him lightened to see her. If these stones fell away and the walls crumbled around him, he believed he would still be standing, so long as Sylvia was there with him. He could rebuild Winterfell, but there would never be anyone after Sylvia. Home was his wife and child. Home was his family.

Yet as he rode closer, the hard look on her face didn't break into a warm smile. When he was close enough to see the rigidness of her stance, she gave Bran a stiff greeting, her lips twitching up and then falling just as quickly.

She seemed not to notice the bloodied cloth wrapped around Bran's thigh, nor did she ask why Bran was riding with him and not in his new saddle. Robb frowned.

"There is a very urgent matter at hand that requires your attention." His wife told him softly, her eyes alive with some secret meaning he was not privy to. After a brief pause, his hands tightening once again around the reigns, Robb called for Hodor. The stable boy had been told to be close at hand for when they returned, so a smaller man with a weaker back wouldn't suffer under Bran's weight. Without hesitation, the great lumbering giant hurried over to Robb's horse, and took the younger Stark boy into his arms.

"Take Bran up to Maester Luwin's tower." He ordered.

"Hodor." Said Hodor, and then he hurried off.

As Hodor stomped away, Sylvia looked up at him, concern breaking through the ice of her eyes. "Why does Bran need Maester Luwin?"

"We had some trouble in the Wolf's Wood." He replied, climbing down from his horse and handing the reigns off to Hallen, the Master of Horse.

"Trouble? What sort of trouble?" she asked.

Robb paused. "The worst kind. Wildling attack. One was spared; she begged mercy."

Her lips tightened, and she swallowed. _Some people didn't deserve mercy_ , she thought. They would have opened Robb's insides to the freezing air, letting animals and other scavengers come pick him apart until there was nothing left of her love. Gods knew what they would have done with poor, fragile, defenceless Bran.

The thought, in its naked, brutal honesty, startled her, and all at once, she felt _happy_ that those wildlings were dead. But something pulled inside her to know there was one _right here_ , under her nose. _She surrendered_ _though_ , she reminded herself hurriedly. It was lowly to kill a foe who'd given up the fight, one who had no means of defense. They were better than the savage creatures beyond the Wall, who were said to kill needlessly, without honour or grace.

Still though, she'd rather the woman elsewhere if not dead. Anywhere outside their safe, study, unbreakable walls.

"Bran rode off." Robb explained further. "I and Theon were talking and I didn't see him stray." He spoke softly, as though ashamed, and she knew he must hate himself for losing sight of his brother. She moved to assure him, placing her hand on his arm, squeezing gently so he could feel her through his warm clothes.

"Are _you_ hurt at all?"

"No. The blood is theirs." The southern girl sighed with relief.

The deaths of the wildlings did not grieve her, but it had been her husband who killed them and that made it different. Robb had never killed anyone before.

The girl eyed the dried blood on his gloves, dark and dull against the leather. Sylvia wanted to touch it, to slide her fingers against the repulsive droplets and see if they would stain her hands as well. Those little marks on his gloves both disgusted her and fascinated her; so instead, she looked up at her husband, prepared to relay the necessary words she knew would bring him comfort. But at finding the cloud of emotion in his eyes—dark and intense—she found nothing could pass her lips.

There was no sudden shift from boy to man, any evil glee or fear, only Robb. Her Robb was still there. Good and wise and merciful Robb.

She lowered her eyes and tugged on his arm. "Come. This won't wait." she pulled him behind her, her little fingers holding tight to his.

When they crossed the threshold into the warmer interior of the castle, Robb voiced his curiosity. "Syl what is it? Is it Mini?" he asked. He knew it was likely not his daughter, as Sylvia would never have left the child's side if she had taken ill. But still, he needed to ask.

His wife shook her head, long black tresses waving alluringly over the white mink fur. "No, she is well. Only teething as Maester Luwin tells me." She looked back at him, her blue eyes hard and serious. "But there is something more that you should know."

"What is it?"

"I can't tell you here. Where it is open." Had Maester Luwin not advised her otherwise, she would have yelled it across the stable yard, not caring if anyone had heard.

"If it's so terrible, where's the harm in telling me now?" he grumbled, a hint of impatience seeping into his words. What could be more horrible than Bran nearly dying at a wildling's hands? Alas, his wife did not indulge him and pressed on through the corridors and soon enough, he realized they were going to her Lady's Solar.

The door shut with a creak and thud and she leaned on it a long moment. She seemed to be thinking, because when she looked to him, there was a deep, thoughtful look about her.

"I was headed to see Maester Luwin today, after you left. Mini kept crying, and I worried there was something the matter with her, so I went to him." She pushed off the door. "It turns out he was looking for me too and he gave me this." she presented a half rolled up scroll, holding it out to him. Before he could even start to read, she began speaking. "Your mother, in a _fit_ of mad grief," she began sharply. "Has _taken_ _my_ uncle hostage, and is traveling to the Eyrie, where he is to answer for unexplained crimes."

The silence of the room was endless, and it felt inexplicably colder somehow. Robb's fingers crumbled around the parchment, crushing the paper as though he could destroy the memory of it and what it told of. His wife watched him, wary, and careful, as though she were looking for something incriminating. There were subtle changes that were brought by shock, and there was a trace of contempt and disbelief, but little else she could distinguish.

"The Imp?" he finally asked, still holding the crumbled ball in his hand.

" _Yes_ , _the Imp_ ," she said impatiently. "It's all there in her message: from her seizing him with a merry band of tavern drunks, to her arrival at the Eyrie. What _isn't_ there is _why_ she thought it wise to make off with Tyrion."

"Wisdom had little to do with it." He muttered.

"My uncle has done nothing to her. He has even given her son the ability to ride, and yet she does my family offense. The last time someone abducted a member of House Lannister, my grandfather decimated two Houses. And the ones taken were not his sons."

"I know what happened, Sylvia. I took the _same_ history lessons as you." He replied hotly, throwing the crumbled scroll behind him, hearing it crackle as it entered the fire.

"No, this is _more_ than history lessons." Her eyes were wide and impassioned. "My grandfather made sure my brother and I knew that story by heart, and I fear it was for precisely this moment. Your mother may have just started a _war_ in some fit of hysteria."

"Don't call my mother mad, Sylvia. I will not tell you again." He spoke lowly, his voice dark and threatening and it brought Sylvia back to herself, remembering her position here in the north.

The southern girl paused, indignant, but yielding. Then she brought her hands up to her chest and began to twist. She loved Lady Catelyn dearly, but when Sylvia thought of her, her anger only grew. "The longer my uncle is in chains, the more resentment will build between the Lannisters and Starks."  
She bit out. "I do not wish for that. I only want _peace_ between our families."

There was a long silence. "It may not be as such for a long while yet, Syl." His heart nearly broke to see her face fall, her brows knitting together as the idea swept through her. She loved her mother and siblings more than words could say, and if strife ignited between them and her husband's family, she would be honour and duty bound to shun them out of respect for her husband.

Custom would keep her from sending so much as a letter to her own mother. Family feuds had been known to last generations. Sylvia shivered.

"This may yet be absolved if action is taken quickly." She said surely.

Robb's eyes brightened. "Right." He shifted, a hand coming up to scratch his bearded cheek. "There is a chance, a _small_ chance that no one in Kings Landing knows of this yet. We can gather a defense. Strike them and weaken them before they come at us full force."

"What?" she hardly contemplated the word passing her lips. Defence? Strike? He was talking of open war, as happily and excitedly as he would talk of sword play. War could bring glory, it was true, but for all its glamour, it was not worth her family quarreling like bitter strangers. She shook her head, outrage colouring her cheeks red. "Catelyn _took my uncle!_ We ought to be marching on the Eyrie _ourselves_ and snatching Tyrion from her hands! What defense can there be?"

Suddenly Robb remembered that Sylvia knew nothing of her family's abominable deeds and fought down the urge to shove all that he knew of them into her hands. For her to know about the Lannister's perceived crimes—from Jon Arryn, to the attack on Bran—would bring about misery, and he wanted to delay that as long as he could. But was it any better than her _not_ knowing?

He nearly blurted the whole bloody thing out, but fate would have it that Maester Luwin knocked hurriedly on the chamber door, speaking through the wood, and bring their eyes towards his muffled voice.

"Forgive me, my Lord and Lady, but there was a raven from King's Landing."

Sylvia wretched open the door and ushered the old man into the room without grace or gentleness.

"How is Bran?" Robb asked. He didn't know how long he and Sylvia had been talking, but it must have been long enough for the maester to stitch him up and go up to the rookery and retrieve this scroll.

"Fine as can be, my lord. I sent him off with Hodor to the kitchens for a treat." His aged hand pulled the scroll from his great sleeve, and presented it to the young lord.

"Good." Robb nodded as he took the scroll. The maester stood silently by the door and Sylvia paced impatiently before the fire as Robb read through the scroll. It was Maester Luwin who saw the first traces of ire spread through his face. He turned to his wife, as though she were the one who were to blame.

The girl kept up her pacing, not noticing until her husband spoke. "My father has been attacked." Sylvia's eyes widened. "By Jaime Lannister."

_Oh it's already starting_ , she thought with dread. "You _make_ her release Tyrion and it will be as it was. Our families will make peace, and that will be that!" it would go back aright; her father would make it so. He would never allow this to go on. He would fix it. But first Tyrion had to get out of Catelyn's clutches.

But strangely, Robb looked angry. At her. "They butchered my father's men! Men you knew, and yet you stand there and defend your uncle's savage actions." He was almost shouting, and he looked as though he wanted to shake her until she saw sense. But he was much too honourable for that. She wondered, for just a second, what it would take for him to lose that restraint.

"I defend nothing! But he will face father's punishment and—"

"How? The kingslayer fled the Capitol like a damned coward." Her husband spat. He turned from her, stomping over to the window.

_Uncle Jaime is many things, but a coward is not one of them_. The princess squared her jaw and spoke evenly. "The _only_ way this can be remedied is if Catelyn releases Tyrion. Let me go to the Eyrie. I'll talk sense into her." _or I'll slap her until she sees it_ , she thought. In fact, it did not matter if Catelyn saw reason. She would _take_ Tyrion back if need arose. Anything to keep this from going on.

Her husband did not turn from the window, the outside light illuminating his face, brightening his eyes into blue pools and shining his hair like polished copper.

"I'll not let you ride the lands yourself." He said in a gentler tone. "They know what my mother has done, and they attacked my father in broad daylight for it. Imagine what they'll do to you if they had their hands on you." He was enraged by just the thought of someone touching her, his hand tightening into a fist by his side.

No one would ever lay a hand on her, he'd cut down an army if that's what it took.

"They're my family Robb. They would _never_ hurt me."

"It's not your family I'm worried about. Common folk are easily riled." He met her gaze. "Anyway, my mother will have gotten word of what happened in King's Landing. It could bring her to release Tyrion." He tried to sound sure, but underneath, they both thought the same thing: o _r it could incense her to slit his throat._

"And if not? What then?" Robb could not answer, for she knew the answer as well as he, and to reply anything else would be insulting. "What will we do?" Robb was about to answer, but his wife spoke first. "You're a man of honour, Robb." She spoke softly, watching him from across the room. "You always have been, and you can't be anything else. So tell me: what is the honourable thing to do?"

Robb was quiet and thoughtful, and for a moment she was hopeful he would truly heed her advice. To Sylvia, the choice was simple, there was no other way. Returning Tyrion would be the simplest thing in the world, and she didn't understand why her husband resisted. Was he so prideful that it overrode his sense?

"Maester Luwin," he turned to the old man. "Write out a message for each of my father's bannermen. Tell them to gather their men and march to Winterfell in the name of my lord father. Do not send out the ravens yet, but keep them close." The old maester bowed his head in affirmation. Sylvia's eyes burned into him, mystified and accusing, but held her stare. "They attacked my father and slaughtered his men like animals. Whatever has started, it can't be stopped now."

"So you won't move to stop her?" the girl exclaimed, bewilderedly.

"No."


	21. Cold As It Gets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories from the past, tensions breaking, and confrontations

**Chapter 18: Cold As It Gets**

When she'd been a girl, there was scarcely a time when Sylvia was left alone. There was always someone who trailed after her—be they maids, septas, knights, or masters who'd been brought in to teach her. Nothing less could be expected for the princess, and she never knew a different life. But there were times when she only wanted to play, to be silly and run and dance without minding if she were graceful or proper or if it would shame her later. There were times when she wanted to only be by herself.

So she took notice of when her sweet old Septa Bryda would doze off in her chair, when Fredrik had his afternoon meals in the kitchens and summoned up her bravery and left the safe confinements of her mother's apartments. It was terribly thrilling to walk the halls alone; it wasn't the least bit scary. But her moment of freedom was cut short when one of the passing guardsmen called out her name and promptly brought her back to her (very cross) septa.

It didn't deter her though; if anything it only made her _more_ adamant to get farther than she had the previous time she'd escaped. It became a kind of game, to see how far she could go before she was stopped. But the time between escaping and being brought back, were what she treasured.

She'd dared to tread the battlements a time or two, adoring the smell of the ocean, the warmth of the sun striking off the sapphire blue water. But there were always guards on duty, and it always cut her trip short when they spotted her.

The gardens were lovely and largely empty, but she quickly grew bored of them. The bugs disgusted her and the smell made her sneeze.

But most often she would wander the halls, getting lost in the vast Keep for an hour or two. She never saw the same thing twice, because the Red Keep was notoriously massive, filled with secret passages and hidden doors and so many balconies and walkways that boredom was impossible.

On one such time she had taken steps down into the castle's bowels and found one of the last few remaining artefacts left over from the Targaryen dynasty: dragon skulls.

Her father had said he'd crushed and destroyed every little thing that was left over from the Targaryen rule (apart from the Iron Throne) and to see the massive skulls sitting there under her father's castle was alarming. Did her father know these were here?

She knew better than to ask him, because the memory of Robert lashing out at the mention of an old Targaryen name was still fresh...as were her mother's bruises. Sylvia still hadn't the courage to look up at her mother, knowing that the purple bruise smeared on her cheek had been intended for her. Mother never said anything of it, but somehow that was worse.

Sylvia flinched away from her father too, avoided him as best she could. She feared him. She never had before, but now she looked up at him and saw his anger, the look on his face when he'd struck out for her. In time, it would fade. It would never happen again, but nothing would ever erase the memory.

With morbid curiosity she'd approached the skulls, despite a little voice telling her to turn away from the thing her father hated and go back to him and be loyal. It was for her fascination with the Targaryen's why her father had tried to hurt her. These skulls, even to her young mind, had symbolized betrayal. But something urged her on and then her feet were moving.

She'd half expected the bone to be hot when she touched the largest one, but it was as cold as ice.

She visited them every chance she got from then on and never told anybody about them, not even her closest companions. She could not trust anyone with this; even the ones she trusted, because then it would not be _hers_ any longer. The skulls were _her_ secret, her favorite place, and in time, the old worry and guilt over adoring them so much faded off into nothing.

After all, they were only skulls. It was not as though she were harbouring a flesh and blood Targaryen. But she felt safer for knowing her father knew nothing about it.

* * *

Over the years, the skulls she'd been fascinated by had drifted further from her memory. By the time Sylvia married, the skulls of her childhood had lost their importance, and were no longer the biggest secret she kept.

Which is why it was so strange to see them suddenly in her dreams.

They felt cold against her fingers as they had years before, the obsidian coloured bone shining in the torchlight like freshly polished armour. She was vaguely aware of the black abyss behind her, the darkness threatening to swallow her whole if she moved away from the haven of skulls. She felt cold dread slide up her belly like a knife, but she held tighter to the bone, clenching her eyes closed as she pressed her forehead to the dragon's smooth tooth.

_One..._

This was far more frightening than anything she remembered of her time playing in the skulls. She'd played inside them for goodness sake!

_Two..._

As a child, she'd even pretended they were still alive, and that she had been swallowed whole by the long dead dragon it belonged to, waiting for... _someone_ to save her, like a knight.

_Three..._

She wanted to scream, to turn and face whatever was lingering in the dark behind her, to whatever was whispering, but she could not find the heart to do it. What frightened her most was not what she _might_ see, but what she _couldn't_. What might be staring back at her with invisible eyes? She swore she could almost _feel_ it looking at her.

It wouldn't be right to look.

She felt the air shift, someone was _moving_ , and her mouth went dry, her belly clenching with fear.

_Four..._

And then, there were more sounds to the dead silence, a small patter of feet echoing off the red brick, a little laugh echoing off the distant hidden corridors.

Her eyes shut tighter, and her body was pressed tightly against the cold tooth. Half of her wanted to turn to see who was there, to call out to them that she was a princess and to frighten her would mean losing a limb. But the other half, the stronger half, wanted to shrink away and hope whoever was there in the dark would leave her alone.

_Five..._

The patter grew louder into a gentle thump booming through the corridor, but the giggles broke off into badly hushed snorts, before settling down entirely. Then, the footsteps stopped, somewhere not too far from her.

_You'll never find me. I'm the best hider in the entire Keep!_

With that, Sylvia Stark's shoulders leapt from the bed, a strangled gasp choking from her throat.

Lady Sylvia breathed deep for breath, blinking into the darkness of her chambers with watery eyes and casting a look to the other side of the bed at once.

The space beside her was cold and empty, the pillow smooth and cool as her husband had not slept beside her. With a stab, Sylvia remembered that she was alone and Robb would bring no comfort to her tonight. She'd taken to sleeping in another chamber at night, leaving Robb alone in theirs with Mini shared between them.

Ever since news of Tyrion's capture three days earlier, and Robb's subsequent refusal to interfere, Sylvia refused to sleep beside him. If he would not even send a _raven_ to order his mother to release her uncle, she would not share a bed with him. She'd sent two ravens in the past few days, one to the Eyrie filled with demands and pleas for her good-mother to see reason, and one to the Capitol with promises to her own mother that she and her husband were working tirelessly to right this wrong. She hoped the letters placated the women, because there was little else she could do.

A soft sob left her lips as she rested her elbows on her knees, digging the heels of her hands into her eyes to shove the dream away. Her hands felt shaky, and her face felt damp with what she hoped were not tears. She trained her ears to listen for her daughter's sleeping breaths, hoping the gentle lulls would calm her, but there was only silence. Mini had stayed with Robb tonight.

 _It was only a dream_ , she thought to herself, shaking her head dismissively. _Only a damned dream_.

But why did it remain with her, as she lay back down? The muscles in her shoulders were taught, and she was so very aware of the dimness of her chamber, the fire having burn down to embers in the night. But she had no notion how to properly build a fire herself, and she didn't want to leave the bed anyway. Not now.

 _Gods_ , she thought with a snort, _I sound like a craven_. Soon the little bit of humour dissolved, and she curled further into the furs.

She wished for Mini, wished her baby's gentle, slow breaths were there beside her to pull her back into a peaceful sleep. She wished for Grey Wind, because nothing frightened him and he would sleep over her legs and scare any threat away. She wished for Robb most of all, because there hadn't been a night they'd slept apart in years and being next to him at night made her unafraid of nightmares.

But how could she ever allow him close to her like that again? When he allowed such pain and humiliation to come to her family? To _her_ by extension?

As she pulled her blankets over her shoulders, Sylvia closed her eyes and waited for sleep. The princess had never been very good at sleeping alone.

_The Keep is a thousand leagues away; the skulls are in a dark cell, forgotten and hidden. I am here at Winterfell, I am safe._

_I am home._

* * *

Four days more had passed them by, and Sylvia still slept away from her husband. No more nightmares had come, thank the gods, but she still awoke cold and reaching out for someone that wasn't there.

Sylvia did not think much of the gossip that would culminate between the savants due to the strife between her and her husband, because there was no way this could be twisted into being her fault. _Robb_ was who refused to intervene.

Anyhow, they had no true knowledge of _what_ transpired between her and her husband and what the servants gossiped about did not concern her. Now if it were nobles whose attention had been captured by her marriage...then that was cause for concern.

The young Lady of Winterfell walked through the corridors on her way to the steward's, her plum coloured gown making her stand out from the other women in their grey dresses in a way that was almost boisterous. If she was useless in the north to do anything but send letters of hollow assurances and meaningless pleas, she would _at least_ get a bit of work done. The stores needed to be reviewed anyway, and she needed to hear how the new servants had settled in since arriving. Some new fabric needed to be ordered as well. Mini was quickly outgrowing her tiny dresses.

Ser Fredrik followed solemnly behind, having nothing to say that would cheer his former charge, and knowing speaking freely would incense her. Of course he knew of what troubled her—when a Lannister went missing, it wasn't very long until the entire country knew about it. He knew his little lady had every prerogative to rage. But he did not approve of the way she chose to punish her husband or even that she saw fit to punish him at all. It was childish, and it seemed ill for a woman to so unapologetically disapprove of her husband's choices.

Or perhaps he disapproved because he knew fighting with her husband made her miserable and she knew very little of how to conceal it.

One of the tailors had mentioned they'd sent for a roll of fine soft cotton from the Neck, (better suited to Minisa's soft skin, which had already proved too sensitive for wool), and at once, Sylvia cast her sharp blue eyes to the elder tailor, a tall bristly man with a work belt strapped around his waist.

"One roll? I asked you for three: one for both of the younger Stark boys and my own child." The man was taken aback by his lady's stern voice, shifting on his feet slightly and looking away from her. "Were you even listening?" The tailor, named Sharpe, opened his mouth to reply. "Oh never mind." She snapped, her hand waving away his attempts of apology. "Order two more. Do you think you can remember?"

He nodded softly, not letting on that he was thoroughly shamed and embarrassed. "Good. Now get to it." The lady ordered.

 _If she keeps on,_ thought Fredrik _, the people will start to think this is her natural state._ Usually, Sylvia treated the servants about the castle kindly enough, but never let them forget her status and become _too_ familiar.

They knew she did not belong very well without being reminded of it; she was southern and soft and many were convinced that when winter came again, her skin would either freeze to ice, or she would hide away in the castle until the sun came again. Fredrik hoped that when that day came, she proved them all false. Sylvia could endure, he knew she could. She was a stronger little lady than others thought her to be. Sometimes, he thought even Lord Robb believed that she was a fragile southern flower.

When they were gone and it was just the two of them once again, Sylvia deflated, her shoulders slumping and a weary sigh leaving her lips. The tips of her fingers touched the table she stood by, where Sharpe's scrolls of plans and inventories once sat.

"That was...not proper of a lady." She concluded softly.

"It is your right." He replied simply.

Sylvia sighed and rolled her eyes, and Fredrik didn't know if it were for her annoyance at the tailors, him, or her husband which made her do so. A hand came up to pinch the bridge of her nose.

"No. No. Bryda, she taught me to be kind and gentle to servants. She said I had a duty more than anyone to be kind to them." She took in a breath and released it. She still missed her sweet gentle Septa Bryda in times of trouble and wished for her arms even now. "I've always done my duty. Haven't I?" When Fredrik did not answer, she looked to him, and he was surprised to see true, naked question in her eyes. _Have I done my duty_ , she asked silently. "Right?"

Fredrik thought about what to say, whether or not to attempt humour to make her smile. "Aye. Sometimes, not too happily...but always."

She looked away, his little quip not reaching her. "When my mother asked me if Sansa would be a good wife to my brother," her voice was filled with bitterness. "I told her that she was good, and kind, and gentle, and that she would abide her duty to the end, like a good lady. I did it despite my heart telling me to lie." She looked up at her knight again, bitterness and regret swirling in the blue pools. "I _wanted_ to say that Sansa would run wild, and was like to humiliate Joffrey. It was my first instinct after laughing." The smile on her face was humourless, and fell away quickly and marred into a frown. Fredrik's brows pulled down with disapproval. Little Sansa and the princess were close friends, so how could Sylvia think of speaking such vile lies about the girl?

"It's wretched, but I never wanted her to be queen. Never wanted her to marry _him_." _Sansa deserved better_ , she thought. "But I couldn't thwart a plan which would bring boundless honour to the Starks. If it ever came out, they would all hate me. _All of them_." Tears had gathered in her eyes, and Fredrik was filled with pity for his charge. Sylvia never cried unless the tears were wrung from her. "S-so I abided my duty, to Robb, to the Starks because it was right. Because I couldn't betray them and go through life with _that_ over my head. I never thought Robb would feel differently. I don't know why..."

She thought of her uncle, little Uncle Tyrion who'd always been so kind to her, who could very well come to hate her the longer he spent in captivity. She thought of her mother, and the disappointment she must feel towards her eldest daughter. She thought of Joffrey and the awful things he would say, things that would tear her reputation apart. Then she thought of her grandfather, Lord Tywin, who'd decimated houses who'd tried to overtake his. For just a moment, she saw Stark banners burning, and a cold shill swept through her.

 _It will never happen, though_ , she thought to herself. _Never_. It could never happen.

 _But_ _I will be known as the woman whose husband spat in her family's face. I will have no one left to me in King's Landing. The only one who is not likely to shun me would be father._

Sylvia was quiet a long time, staring thoughtfully into the brazier, a touch of worry in her features. When at last she collected herself, running her fingers over her gown to erase invisible creases, she straightened herself and turned to him. The girl she was disappeared behind the mask of a lady without doubt.

"You're with me though, aren't you?" she asked with a tremulous smile.

"Aye." _Always_ , he thought, knowing such a promise would likely not be easily kept in coming years, but knowing he'd do all he could to keep it.

"I'll need to apologize to Sharpe." She looked up at him, almost like a child realizing they'd done wrong.

"That would be the ladylike thing to do," he said with a little gleam in his eye.

* * *

"My lady! A raven from the queen," the maid was breathless, as though she'd run all the way from the rookery to her solar. "It's addressed to you." The maid concluded.

Sylvia unrolled the scroll with great carefulness, unwilling to damage the words inside by eagerness. She was eager to hear from her mother, wanting to know what news the raven had brought with it.

But the message was all the same. The lower Riverlands were burning, villages washed away with fire and steel, common folk displaced and left with nowhere to go, and others left dead. It was the same news on a different scroll, and studying the awful words made her belly feel queasy.

" _...great insult to me, and your brother, done to us by your husband for his inability to talk sense into his mother. I implore you to urge your husband on, for every day that passes, the deeper he shoves the knife_. _Have him honour your marriage by reminding him who his loyalty lies with_."

The queen's words stuck her like a hammer to her chest, and she found cold, insulted rage rising in her heart. Something she'd never before experienced from her mother.

 _Honour_ their marriage? It was as though she'd written with the idea in her mind that Robb had no value for their marriage, for her or the child between them. Of his faith, Sylvia had no doubt. There was no chance Robb would ever devalue their vows or the love he had for her. How could her mother think such a thing? He may push aside her wishes, but he was loyal to her, he loved her and honoured her in every other way that mattered.

It was _Catelyn_ who had done this; Robb had no control of her. Some part of her felt ashamed to blame her good-mother so profusely because she loved the lady like a mother. Still, it seemed to perfectly logical to Sylvia to blame Catelyn over her husband. He was her husband; the fine details were what mattered to Sylvia. The fine details which softened the blow.

So her mother hadn't a right to assume what her husband valued, no right to seethe her resentment at her through a letter and expect her to meekly agree.

Without enthusiasm or conviction, Sylvia mechanically scrawled out a reply, assuring her mother she was doing what she could to rectify the situation at her end, but near the end of her message, the quill suddenly felt like lead in her fingers. Every time she wrote out one of these letters, it got heavier and heavier and the words felt more and more like lies. It made her feel wretched, dishonourable.

And all the while, she was so very aware of the people suffering through the Riverlands. Innocent people, poor people who had nothing else but their lives by the end of a raid. And there was _nothing_ she could do to stop it.

Slowly, Sylvia let the quill drop from her fingers, the ink dripping down onto the unfinished letter and soaking into the parchment. She was tired of the same old argument, the yelling, the cold silence, the frustration—all of it. She'd had a long, tedious week of it, and she felt like she was dying—drowning in a shallow pool and wondered if Robb felt the same.

Every time the sea of her anger pulled back and it seemed easier to return to her husband's side, she would remember her family, Tyrion, the Riverlands and Catelyn, and she would sink back into it. She would not allow suffering on innocent people over a matter of trivial pride.

She would not let Catelyn drag them through the mud.

When she stood, Fredrik followed her, albeit at a distance. It was as though he knew where his lady was headed and wanted to give her apt space.

She was at his solar doors in less time than she realized, and the realization froze her hand halfway to the door handle. Was she really about to battle with her husband, again? Was it worth it? As she lowered her hand back down to her side, she heard the muffled voice of her husband through the door, his and their daughter's garbled words bleeding through the tiny cracks.

"...no Mini, that's my letter from grandfather—don't tear it—hey!" Her husband said to their daughter, a loud ripping noise coming with his words. Mini squealed with laughter and Robb gave a long suffering sigh. "Oh that's funny?" another moment passed and another rip sounded through the air, and Mini laughed harder. "Silly girl."

Sylvia's lips twitched up and her head rested on the doorpost. He must have relieved Elane to care for Mini by himself. Mini never laughed like that for the maid. The baby babbled happily, and Sylvia listened a moment to her husband and daughter, wishing to join them without bringing dread and coldness into the room.

She wondered if she should leave them be for now and come back later when Mini was gone and she could try once more to pierce Robb's implacable shell. But the people in the Riverlands could not wait, nor would her mother.

Looking back at Ser Fredrik, she motioned for him to stay and then pushed open the door.

Her husband sat on his chair settled before his desk, Mini lying back on the soft bear fur rug, kicking her chubby legs up and clinging to a torn bit of parchment Robb must have given her. Her auburn haired lord sat with his back to her, his elbows settled on his knees, and she could just make out the unrolled scroll he held in his hands.

Robb, who was always so watchful, who had the senses of a fox, did not notice his wife watching through the doorway, and read and reread the scroll until he knew every word. It was from his father, sending him the briefest summary of events in the Capitol in the wake of his attack. Jaime Lannister had fled King's Landing. Robert had gone on a hunt and left him to rule in his stead. The girls were to be sent home without him as soon as the carriage was readied. Finally, he concluded that the raids in the Riverlands were being handled, as he'd sent out a band of good men to seize Gregor Clegane, the leader of the pillagers, and bring him back to the Capitol to answer for his crimes.

"Message from the south?" she asked, causing Robb snap his head around in alarm. He'd crushed his letter in his hands, making it impossible for anyone else to read it.

Feeling a bit embarrassed for his reaction, he stood and tossed the scroll to his desk. "From my father."

Sylvia licked her lips. "What says he?"

He paused, and Sylvia felt something heavy settle in her belly. He hesitated because he either didn't want to tell her, or he was advised not to. He loved his father more than she ever loved hers, and Robb had always strived to be as wise as him. He'd always listened to Eddard's council, to his advice and orders. Whatever the words on that scroll were, they held so much weight because of who had sent it.

Finally, Robb answered. "More news of the slaughter in the riverlands." They both bowed their heads in shame. News of the pain spreading throughout the riverlands struck Robb hard. They would not be suffering had his mother not taken a Lannister hostage. He wished to stop it, to ride down to meet the Mountain himself and deliver him bound and gagged to the king's feet. But his duty was here and involving himself in the quarrel too soon would be perceived as treason if he did not treat lightly. His father had told him to stay out of it, to keep the north out of it.

"You could..." she broke off, the words in her throat catching. This would hurt him. "You could stop this, Robb."

Her husband sighed and stepped away from her. "Now isn't the time for this, Syl." He cast a look down to their child, who had just become aware of her mother's appearance and abandoned her little parchment to twist around to see her better.

"Mamamama!" Mini babbled excitedly. Sylvia gave her baby a grin, the only smile she could muster. But nothing could stop or deny the joy a greeting like that gave her. Stepping forward, the young lady scooped the child up in her arms; the tiny grey dress of her daughter's looked almost white against the plum of her own gown. Sylvia held her child close, pressing her nose to her black curls and inhaling the scent she knew by heart.

"Oh my sweet girl," she murmured softly. She never wanted Mini to know awful things existed, never wanted her to feel afraid to enter a room because it held both her parents. There were times when Robb chided her on being _too_ protective of Mini, thinking it would make her weak willed and timid, but Sylvia would always reply, "I am her mother. She will be fifty and I'll still try to protect her."

Holding Mini in her arms, Sylvia knew it wasn't the time. Grabbing the bundling, rabbit fur lined blanket from Robb's chair, the young girl wrapped her daughter up, never looking up at her husband, though he followed her with sad, hardened eyes. She'd only come to argue with him, and now when she couldn't have that, she was leaving him alone and taking their little girl with her. He made move to stop her, but she was already at the door.

Without even thinking it over once or twice, Sylvia peered out the door and walked over to her ever dutiful knight. Kissing her child as an attempt of apology, the southern girl passed her daughter off.

"I will be with you soon," she murmured softly to her. Mini was too little to understand and began to cry, reaching out for her mother with insistent little whimpers. Before it could get any worse, Sylvia turned and strode back to the chamber, feeling her heart tear apart as her daughter's cries echoed down the hall. Hopefully, Elane could calm her and Mini could forgive her.

The door shut with a thump behind her and she stood before her husband once again. He looked irritated and as though he were about to move her out of the way and bring Mini back. Really, she couldn't fault him for it and was surprised at herself for having done it. But it was done already, and all she could do was ride out the wave.

" _Now_ we will talk." He sighed and turned away, and her anger ignited. She didn't give up Mini to be ignored. "Do you realise how badly it hurt me to pass her over like that?"

"Will you blame _me_ for that too?" he snapped, whirling around to look at her. Every night Robb battled with himself, resenting the empty spot beside him in their bed. But every night he slept alone and miserable. If his wife wanted to blame him so badly, she could do it alone.

"I don't _blame_ you. I'm angry, but I...I don't blame you."

To Robb's ears, she sounded unsure, and it hurt. "There is nothing to discuss. The riverlands are burning. My father is trying to get a handle on things, and my mother hasn't sent word since she started for the Eyrie." He explained in an exasperated rush. This was hard enough to deal with. He didn't want Sylvia here nagging him and making it harder.

"Have you thought to send aid? Thought of trying to dissuade your mother from starting a war?"

"Your mother's men _killed_ my father's men. Good men, men you _knew_." He stepped closer to her until they were almost abreast and she could smell the scent of boiled leather and smoke on him. "You've bought pies off their wives, they stitch your clothes. You've kept company with them. You've seen their children play in the godswood, run through our halls. You _know_ them, Sylvia!" Sylvia broke his gaze, closing her eyes to rid herself of the memory of agonized widows and confused and frightened children.

She'd been beside Robb when they informed the wives of their husbands' deaths. Not since Bran's accident had she heard such naked misery, and in a rush to quieten their tears, she'd promised them protection and compensation to keep their families going a few months until things had settled. It had felt so wretchedly futile, insulting in its meagreness, but Elane had told her that the widows would be grateful for it later.

"I know!" she shouted.

"And do they not deserve justice?" he bit back.

" _Of course_ they do, of course, but—"

"Their lives are not worth as much as one Lannister?" he said harshly.

An icy fist closed around her heart, pain seeping into her veins like ice water. "Do not _insult_ me to keep from answering a question!" she did not want him to truly know how much his words had hurt her. Robb saw it though. He saw her flinch, he saw her eyes widen, he saw the little tremble in her lip, and regret swelled within him. He wanted to take it back, but doing so would admit defeat.

"Any move I make could ignite us into war, Sylvia." He spoke calmly. "If I move one way, I lose respect in the north. If I move another way, I insult your mother's pride. _Nothing_ will work in our favour to move now." he moved away, meaning to go around the desk and find the raven's scroll his father had sent, relaying that fact.

"Removing Tyrion from Catelyn's custody would work in everyone's favour." Robb halted his searching, saying nothing. "You haven't even sent word to her, have you? To the Eyrie? Does she even _know_ the turmoil she's caused?" she concluded accusingly.

Her husband's eyes snapped up to hers, hard and wild. "You think I haven't sent letters to the Eyrie asking my mother what she was thinking?! Every letter I've sent goes _unanswered_. I don't know for sure if they're even reaching her."

" _You_ told me you would do _nothing_ to stop her." she snapped hotly.

"I ask her to plead with Lysa for aid to the riverlands." He could see the doubt written on her face, an incredulous look of disbelief and annoyance that irked him. "I'll write a letter to her in front of you. Would that please you?" His voice was fast and derisive.

Sylvia repaid his sarcasm with some of her own. "Oh yes, _please_. Even though you won't send it, I'll be giddy to know you've made an _effort_." Her husband huffed and stepped around to grab some fresh parchment stacked on a cluster of books near the fire.

So fast and angry were his movements that he didn't notice Mini's rattle lying on the floor between him and the pile and suddenly stepped on the round head of it. Sylvia watched with wide eyes as Robb fell back and landed on his high born arse with a startled cry. For a long moment, it was quiet, the two of them staring at each other with astonishment.

But then Sylvia shattered the silence with a tentative giggle, mindful that this could embarrass and irritate her husband further, but unable to hold back. _His face!_ That startled little yelp!

She laughed long and high, her eyes tearing up and her belly aching as her mirth rolled on and on, until she was breathless and red and clutching her stomach. She was as giddy as a little girl, her worry and stress and fear and anger melting away to reveal her for the young woman she truly was.

Robb could not stop the smile forming on his lips as his wife laughed. When she laughed herself onto a stool and then promptly off of it, landing with a thump and a cry, he snorted at her. Before long, they were both laughing like they used to, without any sign of stopping.

"Our families are starting a war and we can't stop them." She giggled as she righted herself on the floor. She sat across from him, her dress tangled about her legs.

"My mother abducted your uncle from an inn!" Robb bellowed breathlessly.

" _My_ _mother actually cares!"_ she chortled.

"I have no idea what's happening!"

"Neither do I!"

They shrieked with mad glee, Sylvia nearly falling over once again, only steadied by a hand anchored to the floor. Robb tossed his head back and smacked the bookcase behind him with a thump that made them laugh harder. It was all so absurd. The entire situation, and the only way to keep from suddenly crying or screaming, was to laugh.

But as their laughter at the ridiculous situation faded, the true stink of their circumstances came back around.

Sylvia's smile faded away, her hands sliding slowly from her belly and to her lap where they rested limply. Robb tilted his head back to rest on the bookcase and sighed.

Sitting there had a calming quality about it, the silence dragging them into a sense of normalcy. Perhaps it was because they both knew it was rare, that it would not last and that it was unknown when (or even _if_ ) this would be again. She looked at her husband, and he looked at his wife. Both without annoyance, and without thought of the circumstances which had brought them here. At odds with each other.

They'd been together through so much and they'd promised to be by each other's side through much worse. But now that vow was challenged and it was harder to keep it. They needed each other now, but they were on opposite ends, pushing against each other.

Without being asked, Sylvia pushed herself up and crawled to Robb's side, curling herself against him with her head on his shoulder. The northerner curled his arms around her, holding his wife close and pressing his nose to her hair.

For just a moment, the world was forgotten. For just a moment, they were husband and wife. For just a moment, they could support each other without betraying their beliefs.

"Will you come back to me tonight?" he asked softly, as though afraid to know the answer.

"I will." She replied after a moment, pressing her cold nose against her husband's neck.

* * *

"Do you love your children?"

"With all my heart." The northern lord replied.

"No more than I love mine." Said the queen.

"They're all Jaime's." Ned felt sick then, his mind swirling with thoughts of his son's wife, his own good-daughter, who had given them a little wolf pup to love. She was part of this abomination, born from the kingslayer and his sister, raised in lies and _passed off_ as Robert's. Half of Ned wanted to leave the queen in the garden, to forget what he knew and spare his family—his _son_ and _granddaughter_ —the hurt and shame of knowing this depravity.

The queen looked very bitter then, a joyless smile crossing her lips. "No," she finally answered. "Robert got a child on me once, and I abided my duty as his queen and wife to give him an heir. But I gave him a girl; Sylvia is his." She would not tell this schemer about her lost boy. He had no right to even have Steffon's name in his mouth. She laughed at the soft sigh of relief that left him. "Look not so afraid, Lord Stark. If Sylvia were born golden haired, it would make no difference now."

"It would make _all_ the difference." He insisted.

"Would it? If she were born Jaime's—if only that were changed, nothing else—she would still be your son's wife, would still have bore him a daughter, and would still be loved in the north. You'd be hard pressed to uproot her, when she's lain her roots down already." There was pride in the queen's voice, for although she would have it that Sylvia could come home and be away from the snarling wolves, she was pleased that Lord Stark could not simply cut the tethers which held her there. It made her safe.

"Why none else? Why only Sylvia?"

"Do you think I'd give him the honour of fathering my children?" she paused. "I haven't allowed him inside me in years. In the rare even that Robert leaves his whores long enough to stumble drunk into my bed, I finish him off in other ways; in the morning he doesn't remember."

"You've always hated him." Eddarad concluded. If she hadn't had any other children from Robert but for the firstborn, how could she love him? She did her duty, and that's where her devotion and respect for Robert had ended. With Sylvia.

" _Hated_ him? I _worshiped_ him. Every girl in the Seven Kingdoms dreamed of him, but he was mine by oath." She lifted her chin proudly, meeting his eye without flinching. "When I finally saw him on our wedding day in the Sept of Baelor, lean and fierce and black bearded, it was the happiest moment of my life. It's only for that adoration that Sylvia is even here. My love for Robert Baratheon faded when he climbed on top of me the night we wed, and moaned _Lyanna_ over and over in my ear. It lasted long enough to bring Sylvia into the world." she said. "But your sister...She was a corpse and I was a living girl, and he _loved her more than me_."

Eddard looked away, as though he could not look at her a moment longer. The royal marriage was not the sort of marriage he would wish on anyone. It was cold, loveless, with four children put between them—regardless of whether or not they were all Robert's. He pitied their children. Pitied the woman before him for living as she did. Pitied Robert, his oldest friend for having nothing else, not even a wife and children, left to carry on his legacy.

"When the king returns from his hunt, I will tell him the truth. You must be gone by then. You and your children. I will not have their blood on my hands. I will keep my son married to your daughter. She is innocent of all this and I will ensure she is well cared for. But go as far away as you can, with as many men as you can. Because wherever you go, Robert's wrath will follow you."

The queen eyed him curiously. Did he think himself honourable? Did he think himself clever or merciful? Cersei knew not what the foolish lord thought of himself, but whatever it was he was none of those things. Her son would be king. Her children would not live a life of fear, would not live looking over their shoulders, in fear that the man they'd once called father would find them and butcher them. She would not have her name dragged through the mud. She would not have Sylvia shamed and shunned, alone in the world with all that she'd known called into question. She'd die before any of that happened.

He would not threaten her and her children without consequence.

"And what of _my_ wrath Lord Stark?"


	22. Dark Wings, Dark Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvia gets some devastating news

**Chapter 19: Dark Wings, Dark Words**

The hunt had been to get away from the incessant squabbling between Ned and Cersei, away from the whole castle and all the affairs and worms within it. When he was freshly made king, he hadn't realized how long the days would be—worrying over the most trivial of matters, the most obscure of courtiers gossiping the loudest. The whole business of ruling was so tedious, especially in recent times. He'd been _sure_ that appointing Ned as his Hand would keep the kingdom's peace, and then Catelyn had stolen Tywin's dwarf.

He'd settled it once and for all, though he knew Cersei and her miserable father would resist, but it would be treason to deny him what he commanded. Once that was over with, he'd escaped to the trees. The rush of the hunt always cleared his mind, and drinking a skin of wine made the issues in the Capitol far away. What he hadn't counted on was the boar getting the better of him, and gorging him with a tusk.

Without even hearing it from dusty old Pycelle, Robert knew he was going to die. Seven Hells, he'd held his own guts in his hands! No one survived that, not even a king. When death comes, and there's little else to the future but an end, there is nothing else but the past, and regrets and the things that may have been. As it happened, Robert had many things he regretted, though no one actually knew it. He kept it all to himself, hardly admitting to his own heart that he'd passed many opportunities by.

He regretted getting mauled by a damned wild pig— _that_ was for bloody sure. He hadn't thought the wine had made him so slow. The beast must have regretted gouging out his insides too because now it was being stuffed and roasted for supper.

He regretted never taking interest in Joffrey, for how feeble and strange he'd turned out. Maybe the cruelty he'd been born with could have been weeded out. But Ned would teach him. He'd raised four good sons, two good daughters, and his own child into a dutiful young woman. Who else but Ned could ensure the kingdoms were safe under Joffrey?

He regretted hardly remembering his daughter's wedding. He wished he could remember it, to have enough memory of that joyous day when Baratheon and Stark were united, but the wine and mead had blackened it. The day after, Sylvia had been standoffish. No smiles had been for him, though she gave them freely to her mother, and the air had been stiff with unease.

He wished he'd visited the north more often. It was where Lyanna was buried, where he could see his grandchild grow. He could have arranged a match for her.

Mostly, he regretted not saving Lyanna sooner, and for spending his life with Cersei beside him.

Maybe, he thought despondently, there are gods, and Lyanna will be on the other side.

The maester had only given enough milk of the poppy to dull the pain, so the king could make his final goodbyes to his family, to give his final orders and make his last requests. There wasn't much he had to say, really. Cersei kept the two younger children away, but he'd heard their wailing through the door, begging to see him, begging for answers. Robert did not call out for them. Their eyes were too young, and Tomen had cried like the world was ending whenever one of his little pets met an end. The last time they saw their father shouldn't be when half his insides were hanging out.

But as the eldest son and heir, Joffrey had come to his side, to say farewell and hear words of wisdom.

Looking at his eldest living son, Robert felt uncertain about his legacy. He'd never had much care of it before, as it had always been Jon Arryn's job to care for such things, but now he wondered of it. Joffrey, the fair haired boy who'd always clung to Cersei, would be his predecessor successor. He studied the boy, searching for something that could spark hope, but there was nothing.

When his first boy was born, Steffon...all Robert had done was hope and dream of what sort of man the babe would grow into. With Joffrey, there'd been nothing and thus it remained. It never bothered him as much as it did now.

"I should've spent more time with you. Taught you how to be a man." Robert let his hand drop from Joffrey's. "I was never meant to be a father. Ought to have sent you with your sister."

Perhaps Robert had meant that Ned would have taught the prince better, beaten out the cruelty properly, but it was not received that way. To Joffrey, it was an admission that Robert believed him equal to the girl he'd sent away—who had shame and disgrace and rumors chasing after her.

Ned arrived just then, looking shocked and fearful at once. "Go," Robert said softly to his eldest son. Joffrey looked at him, bewilderment spreading through his fine, Lannister features. How could Robert want some northern stranger at his side, more than his own son? Why did he love _them_ more than his own family? "You'll not want to see this." Before he was even finished, Joffrey had stood, a stony look on his face. For a short moment, the two regarded each other for the last time, before the younger man turned and strode from the room.

"My fault." He admitted gruffly as Ned took Joffrey's seat. "Too much wine, I missed my thrust. But I paid the bastard back, Ned. Drove my knife into its brain. Have it served at the funeral feast. I want everyone to have a taste of the beast who got me." A small, bloody smiled was on the king's lips, and Ned felt sick. Robert was not one to show weakness. It had only been when Lyanna had died that Ned had ever seen the king shed tears. His bravado hid his fear.

With steady hands, Ned gingerly lifted the bandage around the king's torso, having a peek at the wound. It was a mess; his grace's insides were in shreds, bile leaking from the sewn gashes on his intestines, blood pulsing from seemingly everywhere, and the stink of rot was already upon it. It was a wonder Robert had even survived the trip back to the castle.

"It's foul." The king grunted. "Don't need to be a learned man to know that. Leave, _all of you!"_ The king ordered, his stern voice wrought with pain.

Cersei looked uneasy, afraid even. "Robert, my sweet—" she tried to reason.

"Out!" he bellowed. The queen wrung her hands and shot the Hand a fearful look, a hidden edge in her eyes. They both knew the power the northerner had in that moment, and how easily he could destroy her and all she'd planned. She'd counted on Robert dying before he reached the Keep, but the stubborn bastard had held on and risked _everything_.

Plans could be made again—bribes could be placed, information obtained—and Joffrey would wake tomorrow, safe and sound, and a _king_.

When the door shut behind the queen, Robert let out a sigh, and winced at the pain it garnered.

"You damned fool." Ned said sadly. "We're too old to be doing this."

"Paper and ink on the table." Robert nodded towards the set. "Write down what I say."

As his last orders as King of the Seven Kingdoms, Robert decreed that it would be Ned who would reign over the kingdoms until Joffrey grew into his crown and came of age. However, as the king spoke, Ned wrote that the throne would be awarded to Robert's rightful heir. He would tell the world of Cersei's three monstrosities, and Joffrey would be revealed as a bastard with no claim.

Thus, the right of succession would go to...Sylvia. A wave of dread thrummed through him to think of it.

"Sylvia," Robert suddenly called, his voice low. "I want to see her." He knew she would not come, though his mind had gone rather dull in the last few hours. He wanted to tell her of her long dead twin, wanted to tell her the life he'd wanted for the two of them when they were born, the pride he'd felt. He wanted to tell her to visit Steffon's tomb, (something he'd never done), and never let him be forgotten.

"She's safe in the north, Your Grace, with her child and husband." Eddard replied softly.

"Aye." He was thoughtful for a moment, before he said, "Make sure she's well taken care of, Ned." he looked back at his brother. "You'll have to knock that husband of hers' head off if he humiliates her."

Eddard chuckled dryly. "Sylvia is much like you; I think she can handle that herself."

"No," The king sighed. "She's nothing like me." And it was true; Sylvia had little in common with her father. She was different, something that Robert had never had any care of, but now lamented in the end. For Robert knew only the surface value of his child. Yet she was his child still, and he wanted her kept safe once he was dead. "She needs to be taken care of, Ned. Keep them safe, _all_ of them. Watch out for them. And my son. Teach him; make him better than me."

"Aye." Ned set a hand over Robert's, mulling over his promise.

By the queen's own admission, Robert's only trueborn child was Sylvia and thus was his heir. But he thought of Robert's bastards, the ones he knew. The little girl in the Vale, Mya, the one who was likely to be a woman at least ten years older than Sylvia. He thought of Gendry, strong and wide with Robert's grin. He thought of little Barra at her mother's breast. He would make sure they were looked after, as he promised. He would make Mya a maidservant in Winterfell; ensure a good marriage for her. He would take Gendry into his household as either a guard of a smith of Winterfell, which ever he'd prefer. He would offer to foster Barra at Winterfell, to teach her and employ her in the kitchens.

The king's children would be safe, he'd make certain of that. He had little idea what to do about Sylvia though. With her place in the line of succession bumped up exponentially, he wondered what the country would look with her as their Queen. She was a good woman, proper and sweet, but propriety and sweetness did not make a ruler.

A daft idea entered his mind then, one where Sylvia decreed the allegations against her mother and siblings false and give Joffrey back his crown. But Sylvia wasn't so foolish. She was a clever woman, but not everyone held to sense where their family is concerned. The best he could consider at this point was to suggest she pass her throne up for her Uncle Stannis.

Stannis was not Tywin, nor was he Robert. Ned was certain he would treat Cersei and the kingslayer's bastard's gently enough, sending them far beyond reach, where no one in the kingdoms would ever have to look upon them again.

No matter how Sylvia might protest that, it was still a better fate than anything other men might have offered.

* * *

Ned left Robert's chambers as the maester was giving him a draught of poppy's milk, letting him sleep through his otherwise agonizing end. He and his men made their way back to the Tower of the Hand, the king's royal command safely tucked in his hand. He'd hand off the command, and wait for Stannis to arrive, and then finally, he could return home.

The mess with Tyrion Lannister would be put aside and Catelyn would return home too. He missed his lady very much.

As he stepped through the archway leading to the base of the tower's steps, he spied an all too familiar man with black hair waiting for him. Renly Baratheon was easily recognizable, and were it not for his Baratheon features, the black doublet with a golden stag's head embroidered onto the breast would have been a giveaway.

The youngest Baratheon brother stood straight as the Hand approached. "He named you Protector of the Realm?" His question was not really a question. A small nod confirmed Renly's assumption. " _She_ won't care. Cersei will overrule it with some quick talk and a flash of her coin. Give me an hour, and I will have a hundred men ready at your command." Lord Stark seemed appalled by this.

"And what should I do with a hundred men?" he asked sternly, shifting himself and gripping his cane tighter. His leg always ached and he doubted he'd ever walk properly again. The kingslayer knew how to cripple a man it seemed. His mind flashed to little Bran, and his fist began to shake around his cane.

The youngest Baratheon brother blinked, a bemused little smirk playing on his lips. It was strange to him how thick headed Lord Stark could be. " _Strike_. _Now_ , while the castle sleeps and mourns for Robert!" he explained, as loudly as he dared. "Seize the Regency while you can! You must get Joffrey away from his mother and into our custody. By the time Robert dies, it will be too late for the both of us. Cersei will do away with anyone she thinks could be a threat."

Ned drew himself up. Renly, he realized, had no notion that Cersei's children were bastards, and Ned treaded lightly so not to tell him. If Renly knew, there'd be no stopping him from murdering every Lannister in the castle before Robert's body was cold and stiff.

"What about Stannis?" he asked evenly.

"Saving the Seven Kingdoms from Cersei and giving them to Stannis? Stannis, who has all the appeal of stinging nettles?"

"A Baratheon must be king." Ned pointed out.

"The _right_ Baratheon." Renly countered hotly. "Stannis inspires no love or loyalty."

"And what of Sylvia?" the northerner couldn't help but ask. She was of age, and by right, the throne was hers.

Renly gave him a queer look. "Sylvia?" he laughed. He saw Lord Stark's face unchanged and sobered. "Are you mad? She's girl!"

"And she's the eldest. She's calm; she listens to the wisdom of others. She's clever as well."

Renly, to his credit, seemed to consider this for a moment. "Sylvia is still a child. She was so fanciful when she was little that nobles used to call her Aegon's second coming behind Robert's back." If his brother had ever heard them utter such a filthy thing, heads would have rolled right there at court. Careful in their mockery, courtiers kept on with their whispers, until the day Tywin Lannister's shadow darkened the Throne Room. A stone faced twat the Old Lion may be, but he'd protected his granddaughter's name the way no one else could. Even if it had been out of personal pride.

"If Joffrey even _accepted_ his big sister as his Regent, if he ever bent the laws and allowed her to rule in his name, it would be her mother who ruled the kingdoms, truly, because Sylvia isn't _strong_ enough to defy her." The truth tasted bitter in Renly's mouth, and he felt the oddest sort of guilt rise in his gut. A man should not feel wretched for speaking honestly, especially if it was about matters regarding the safety of his kingdoms.

But Sylvia was his favorite of his nieces and nephews, the one he viewed as more of a sister. They were rather close in age, and she was sweet and silly and she'd confided in him most anything all her life. She told him her secrets, and he even trusted her with his. When he told her of his love for Loras, her shock had made him laugh, but her acceptance and her promise of silence made him love her more. It felt like betraying her for speaking so bluntly of her.

Still, he knew Sylvia was easily cowed, especially by her mother. It was better for the Realm and for her that she remain a princess, rather than rule as Regent.

Ned was silent, his gut twisting. Renly was, by all accounts, Sylvia's best friend as a child. If he could see weakness in her, what hope was there of her being a strong, just queen?

"Then Stannis is the true answer." He concluded, talking more to himself than to Renly.

_"He's not a king."_ Renly reminded him impatiently. "And neither is Sylvia a queen. But I am." A cold shock spread through Ned then at seeing the look on Renly's face. Defiance and pride and determination were a dangerous and turbulent mix. "None of my brother's children are fit to sit the throne, and Stannis would be usurped before the year is over." He explained.

"Stannis is battle hardened and has a good mind for politics."

"He's a soldier. And so was Robert. Do you still really think good soldiers make good kings? Or even little girls who have no mind of anything?"

Ned had nothing to say to that, because truthfully, he didn't. Robert was a poor king, but if Sylvia passed up her claim to the throne, the right fell to Stannis. For Renly to suggest this treason to him, to try to convince him to go along with it, was as insulting to him as it was to his dying brother.

"I will not dishonour Robert's last wish by shedding blood in his halls," he spat at Renly. "And dragging frightened children from their beds." Sidestepping the Baratheon, Ned made the long journey back up to the steps, not knowing that would be the last time he saw Renly Baratheon.

* * *

Robert Baratheon died before the sun set, and when morning came, his queen rose a widow, and her children woke without a father. Cersei and her brood donned black in mourning, but among the royal family, there was little grief.

The queen, of course, had no love for her husband, and his death even came as a relief to her, though she gave no outward sign of being pleased. Those who knew of her husband's many humiliations may have sympathized with her, but of course, they too wore black.

The heir to the throne, still burned by the last time he'd seen Robert alive, had no tears to shed for the man. Robert was dead now, and so Joffrey was to be king, and his first order as king would be to send Ned Stark back to the cold north in disgrace, for Joffrey felt it was the northerner who had spoiled the last moments he had with his father. But, truly, he knew what Robert thought of him, and that hurt worst of all.

Myrcella and Tommen wept for their father, wails that quietened into soft sobbing by the sun's first light. Joffrey had told them how gruesome the wound had been, how foul it had smelled, and while Myrcella hadn't wanted to believe him, Tommen believed Joffrey readily. They'd tried to go see him, to see if Joffrey's horrible words had truth to them, but the guard wouldn't let them through the door.

In the morning, Myrcella held herself up with courage and dignity as a princess should, her tears held back as she held her little brother's had, though her heart was heavy. Good and gentle little Tommen wept for his father, as there was nothing else in his life that could have prepared him for the suddenness of his father's death.

* * *

Leagues away, Robb Stark moved through the halls of his father's castle slowly, reluctant and dreading to reach his destination.

_Dark wings, dark words_ , he recalled the old saying. A truer statement than most, he thought sadly. Every new raven that arrived since father had gone had brought only words of pain and despair and worry. Now it brought the gravest of messages, one that would hurt his wife more than anything else.

When he arrived in the Main Hall, he spied her at the head table, talking with the builders about small repairs needing to be made to the castle. She was at ease, open and confident as she listened to plans, light for the first time in weeks. She wore a gown of purple, a Baratheon gold sash tied about her waist, and her inky black hair fell loose over her shoulders. Sylvia looked every bit the southern girl she was, she looked like she'd be more comfortable in the sun, with the warm summer breeze in her hair. Part of him wondered about the day she found unhappiness for this fact. Or if she had already.

Looking up, she caught his eye, smiling at him over the rolls of parchment laid out before her.

Robb looked away, not able to match her smile.

Things had been calmer between them in the last while—almost normal, though the south was never far behind. She did not tense when he put his arm around her, and neither did he silently dread her company. The true tension had released when another raven from Catelyn came, this time explaining the trial by combat that had granted Tyrion his freedom. Sylvia let a sigh of relief leave her then, and asked Robb if this meant peace between their families. Robb said nothing, but pulled her close to him, hiding his uncertainty within her black locks.

He loathed to have to bring _this_ to her attention, wishing to keep it to himself for just a while, to let her linger in blissful ignorance a while longer. But it would only hurt her worse if he told her later.

He went to the dais, greeting his lady and the builders mildly, and at once, Sylvia saw something was wrong. When he ordered them away, she asked him what the matter was.

"What is it? Has something happened to the children?" she asked urgently, coming closer to him so she could speak lowly.

"No," he replied softly, brushing a lock of hair back behind her ear.

"Is it your father? Catelyn? Has my grandfather hurt them?" she sounded calmer then, as though she doubted this was the source of the trouble. Tyrion was free; what more turmoil could come from that?

Robb was quiet a long while. "Your father..." he began. She seemed not to hear as he explained what had happened to her father, her face unchanged until the end, where he said, "May the gods give him rest." He kept his hand on her arm, ready to engulf her in a hug or catch her in case she fainted.

Instead, his lady's eyes drifted from him to the space beside him, as though in a daze.

To Sylvia, the news hardly felt real. Like a dream. This morning she had woken up the daughter of a king. This morning her father had been alive and safe, enjoying what he love best: hunting. Now he was just...gone? It couldn't be true, could it? No, it couldn't be. It was all too fast, too sudden. It couldn't be true. But her husband was not cruel and he did not delight in morbid jokes such as this. He wouldn't trick her like this.

"A...boar?" she whispered out. From the corner of her eye, she saw Robb nod and head his soft reply of _Yes_. Suddenly a laugh broke out from her lips, high and mad. "No," she laughed. "No, no, no. My father is a battle commander, he killed Prince _Rhaegar_. He wouldn't have died from a b-boar." she looked up at her husband, an odd look on his face, like he worried for her sanity, as though _she_ was the absurd one. She giggled.

"Sylvia, stop it." Robb commanded gently. He'd heard tales of women who went mad after losing someone they held dear, and he worried the same had happened to his wife. Had she been pulled too thin, and suddenly snapped? He feared her mind was gone for the grief and that she was lost to him forever. He responded quickly, hoping blunt honesty would bring her back to herself. "Your father is _dead_. A boar _did_ kill him. He'd had too much wine and it made him slow."

Her giggling stopped, but the tremulous smile was still there. He saw denial, as well as tears in her eyes. "No," she said again, shoving his hand off her arm. "My father is _not_ dead." She determined decisively. "No one would have let the king die from a p-pig." Another smaller giggle escaped her again.

"It _happened_ , Syl. It happened." Robb looked so grim, so solemn...it was a trick, it had to be... But even as she assured herself, she felt her resolve start to chip away, faster and faster until the truth became clearer.

"It's true, Sylvia." The young lord watched as Sylvia's smile faded, feeling as though he were watching a knife slip between her rips, unable to stop it.

"No..." she whispered out, the last of her denial crumbling to dust. Robb raised his hand to pull her close, but she wretched away like he'd burned her and slapped his outstretched hand down like it offended her. Fury spread through her face then, tears gathered in her eyes. "No!" she screamed.

A pig...a damned _pig?!_ Her father— _the king_ —killed by a pig? The King's Guard were meant to protect the king, to keep him from dying. Why had they failed? Which fool had let a damned sow get past them? It was their job to _protect_ people, the king first and foremost and they'd failed. Robb made no mention of them, or why they failed...he had mentioned wine, though.

A sudden, horrible wave of rage washed over her then, not at any member of the King's Guard, but at her father—at the wine he'd been drinking. It was his fault wasn't it? Why must he always drink? It only caused pain and trouble and embarrassment—but he was her father, and he was dead. How could she think such awful things?

But it was his drinking that had _always_ caused her pain, his drinking that _always_ got him into trouble, and now the worst imaginable outcome had come to pass. It had taken him away, stolen countless moments they could have shared together, moments filled with pride or happiness. He would never see Mini grow now...

Her rage came out suddenly, her hands striking out and shoving her husband back against the table. As though she hadn't seen what she'd done, she shoved him again and again, hitting his chest, trying to be rid of this guilt infested rage. The guards at the entrance to the hall shifted, ready to intervene if their young lord gave the command, but Robb did not move.

"The King's Guard...they were supposed to...it was their _only job!_ Grand Maester Pycelle is supposed to be the greatest maester in all the world!" she screamed, her voice breaking and her fists losing their force.

"I know, sweetling," he whispered to her.

"My father is the _king_..." she croaked. "He isn't supposed to..." her tears fell, the first soft cry coming from her throat as her hands stilled over Robb's chest. After the first one, there was no stopping it—the sudden wave of pain and grief rising from the ashes of rage—and she began weeping. Sylvia hardly noticed when Robb pulled her close, moving so they both sat on the bench at the table. She hardly felt him hushing her, or stoking her hair or moving them in tandem back and forth. "Damn them, damn them," she sniffled against her husband's chest. She didn't know who exactly she cursed—the pig, the King's Guard, Pycelle or even her father himself. "It's not...it can't be..."

But it was.


	23. Disbelief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvia and Robb deal with the emotional aftermath of Robert's death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So so sooooo sorry this took a while, but I've been struggling with the next chapter, and hopefully with the new season, it kick starts my muse :D

**Chapter 20:** Disbelief becomes my close companion

_...and anger follows in its wake._

Maya Angelou,  _When I think about Death_

It felt as though things should be suddenly shifted, darker or emptier, but it was quiet and peaceful as the hours crept by. Nothing was out of sorts, nothing around her felt altered or destroyed. That was odd. Everything in her chambers was just as it was the day before. And for the rest of Winterfell, it was like any other day—she could hear the animals in their pens, the clang of hammer on steel, the trot of cloven feet, orders shouted, jokes thrown about. With a strange sort of apathy, Sylvia realized she was the only one mourning for her father in Winterfell. Yes, they would say a prayer for him and toast his name at supper, but that was all.

Kings sitting on the Iron Throne had always been far away, and the people of the north thought more of their children's health than who ruled their country. They had more love for Lord Eddard than they ever had for Robert, and Sylvia was rather startled at how little she cared about that.

Ages ago, it had been as scathing as a personal insult against her when someone did not pay her father the appropriate respect. Now, though...she felt nothing. Sylvia flinched as memories of yesterday returned to her. The day before, she'd felt everything so  _sharply_.

The eldest of Robert's children didn't stop crying until sleep came for her. Sylvia hardly remembered the walk to her chambers, nor did she remember Robb helping her out of her dress. But she distinctly recalled the cup of wine pressed into her hands, and the soft words from her husband that encouraged her to drink it. Through her sniffling, she managed to choke a few gulps down, and suddenly it was impossible to keep her eyes open. It was only in the waking hours that she concluded that there must have been some tonic in the wine to help her sleep.

Silently, she thanked the maester for his aid, for she doubted sleep would have been as peaceful without his potions. Now that the day was new, she remembered her actions the day before with clearer eyes not tinted grey with shock, and she quickly came to realise she'd made an utter, intolerable  _fool_  of herself.

Tears were private; they made a woman vulnerable in more ways than one, and Sylvia hated to think of herself as weak. Weakness was not for princesses, not for women with so much responsibility. But she'd cracked herself open yesterday, a flood rushing out and whatever fires of respect she'd lit were surely dampened. Warmth flicked up her neck and cheeks, red colouring her skin with shame.

But it wasn't only herself she had shamed the day before. Her husband had borne the brunt of it, standing firm against her mad laughter and angry hands. She had even  _cried_ , all for his men to see, and because he loved her, he'd let her and somehow that made her feel worse.

She remembered Robb's face when he came to the table, remembered wondering why he looked so sad. To others, he looked serious, but she could see the little crease between his brows. She remembered, so clearly, so distinctly, how she thought whatever was the matter couldn't be so bad. Together, they could sort it out and mend it, just as they had many times before. Though memory of his news made her stomach turn and her throat feel tight, Sylvia remembered  _every word_  he'd said, and she went over them, obsessively, though she didn't know why.

Suddenly, the blow of her father's death landed against her chest, just as sharp as it had the first time. Tears rose in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks before she could stop them. Angrily, she wiped them away. She'd cried  _enough_  for  _him_  through the years, tears he cared nothing for on the rare occasion he'd seem them. He'd spared her little thought anyway, judging by his scant letters over the years. Seven Hells! The only time his letters were frequent, were in the months after her wedding, and every single one was started with the question "Are you with child yet?"

So why did she weep for him? Why did she feel this way now if all her memories of him were terrible?

She wondered how her mother was. If she'd wept, or if she'd let a little sigh of relief into the sky. With her king gone—

Sylvia clenched her eyes shut as realization dawned on her. Now that father was gone,  _Joffrey_  would be king.  _King_. The word sounded strange to her now. King...it meant ruler, Lord of all the land, Protector of the Realm. The one who led a country and demanded the highest level of respect from his people. That little  _urchin_  was the king now and she knew it—she  _knew_   _it_  in the very marrow of her bones that he would be a worse king than—

Sylvia shook her head, the thought sliding off her like dew from a leaf. Even though she resented Joffrey, imagining he would be worse than Mad Aerys seemed like a issuing a challenge to the gods.

 _Mother daren't weep for father now that Joffrey gets his throne_ , she thought bitterly.

At once, the image of Joffrey wearing their father's crown came to mind, and Sylvia felt revulsion claw up her throat. If Mad Aerys had proven anything, it was that cruelty did not belong on a throne. It made her feel sick to think of paying homage to him, after all he'd ever done was torment her, but (especially after the conflict between her family and Robb's) there would be no way to resist without inflaming her brother's temper.

Sansa would now be queen, and if the gods were good, his counselors would make them wait a few more years. True, through history it was not uncommon for kings to wed maidens in a quick hurry to secure their legacy, but history had no place in the present.

It bothered her to imagine Sansa in an elegant southern gown, hair adorned with jewels and topped with a crown. Would the stink of her father's corpse still linger in the Sept of Baelor as she and Joffrey swore their vows? Would anyone find folly in this idea as she had? Would Sansa protest if her wedding feast shared with a funeral feast? It was too  _soon_.

She drew herself back; there was hope yet that his advisors could persuade Joffrey to wait.

And beyond that, her little good-sister would be saddled with Joffrey as a husband. Yes, Sansa gave no indication when she left, or in the letters she'd sent back home, that Joffrey was anything but wonderful to her. Even when Lady was slaughtered, Sansa never voiced blame towards the prince.

Unwilling to dash the girl's dreams, Sylvia had kept silent about Joffrey's nature, ready to pounce in if Sansa showed the littlest bit of unease about him, but she never did. And so Sylvia truly began to hope that Sansa sweetened the little prick some, hoping that when they married, it would be a decent marriage and that Joffrey never showed her the ugliness he so happily showed others.

Yes, it was  _essential_  that they waited. If Sansa retained the Stark name, and learned what Joffrey could be like and decided a crown was not worth the trouble, it would be a hundred times easier to break the match. On the other side of things, it was thousand times more impossible to be free of your king once you are his queen. What then? Mother seemed fond of the Sansa, and she was certain that she'd shield Sansa from Joffrey if he ever became...irate. Just as she'd done for Sylvia when she was little.

Unbidden, a memory of one time mother  _hadn't_  been the one protecting her came forth. She hardly remembered it, really. But there were some things that never could be forgotten, the things that form the very rock we build ourselves on. Joffrey had done something that had hurt her—bitten her, perhaps?—and father had seen him. At once, he grabbed Joffrey up and tossed him from the room. He must have ordered someone to take him back to their mother's chambers, because after that, the recollection was not unhappy. Joffrey was gone, her pain avenged, and her father was there with her.

Other times his heir was cruel to her, father had been too drunk to notice.

She cast her eyes over to the empty cradle. The last time she saw her father, he'd gifted Mini a beautiful rattle, and said to save it for any other children she had. Their last goodbye, though neither of them had known it then.

Suddenly her hand shot out, and her fist connected with the thick wood of the headboard, pain bursting throughout her hand and up her arm. She welcomed the pain, her rage momentarily sated from the harsh action, the accompanying ache a welcome distraction.

* * *

Robb came to her not long after, Mini in his arms and Elane in tow with a trey of luncheon in hand.

When she woke earlier, the sun was shining on her face and the space beside her was ruffled and cold. Robb must have stayed with her the night before, but left with Mini when the day's chores called upon him. She hoped Mini had seen nothing the night before, because a child should never see their mother in such a state. It would only frighten them and burden them.

She eyed him with trepidation, her arms fidgeting under his soft gaze and she fought down the initial urge to tell him to go away. She felt nervous, and wished to turn away from him so he would not see her and remember the mad thing she'd been when he saw her last. Embarrassment coloured her cheeks anew, and uneasiness twisted in her belly like a ball of snakes. Was the tenderness in his eyes borne of pity?

There had been softness in his eyes when he told her of Robert's fate, empathy she'd denied seeing because she hadn't wanted to believe he was telling the truth. When she realized it was not a joke and stopped her cackling, anger had risen. And guilt, horrible, heavy guilt, had settled a stone over her heart and she thought, for a fleeting moment, that she'd never laugh again.

Looking at her husband now, all she wanted to do was hide away from him until he no longer looked at her like that. Until there was no longer a  _need_  to look at her like that. But with him, before, she'd found comfort, a way to look beyond her hurt and see that she could bear it. She so wanted that now. She  _needed_  it.

The sleeves of her nightdress slid down over her elbows as she reached out for Mini, softly asking Robb to come sit with her, thought a small part of her feared he would refuse.

But instead, Robb looked to Elane, still holding her trey, and nodded to her. As the maid set the trey over her legs, Robb slid into bed beside her, settling next to his wife as quick and smooth as a fox, hardly jostling the baby in his arms. Elane took her leave then, leaving the family alone.

"Hello," she began awkwardly, a strained smile playing on her lips. The hoarseness of her own voice surprised her and she cleared her throat.

"Hello," he returned. "I'm sorry; I meant to be here when you woke, but a farmer came to the castle, claiming another farmer stole his cattle."

"It's alright. I...I needed the time to think."

"And?" he prompted.

She hesitated, her face dark as her thoughts, as she wondered what she could tell him. "And I'm hungry." She finally said, her smile not reaching her eyes.

Still in Robb's arms, Mini reached out for her mother, her little fingers opening and closing in the air, a sure sign she wanted her arms. Sylvia reached out for her, but Robb hesitated in handing her over.

"I can hold her while you eat, if you'd like?" he asked.

"I can hold her." she replied curtly. As Mini settled in her lap, her head rested against her chest, listening to her heart, while her pudgy little fingers played with Sylvia's long, unmade hair. "Did she eat?" she asked softly, casting a look to the trey filled to capacity with bread, lamb cuts, cheese, blackberries and a lemon cake.

Robb watched her, not knowing if he should say something about her grief, about her father or act as though nothing were wrong. She was sidestepping the issue, he could see it in her tight smiles, and how she tried not to look at him.

"She did." He replied. "A serving girl tried her on porridge today and only half wound up on the floor." He joked mildly. His wife gave him no smile, and popped a berry into her mouth.

It was silent a long while between them, and Sylvia knew what he was aching to ask.

"I'm fine." She said and at seeing him turn to meet her eyes, she said, "I can see questions stewing away in your head and there's no need to ask."

Robb pressed his shoulder closer to hers, his hand coming to press against the arm that curled around Mini. The heat of his hand through her thin nightgown made her realize how cold she was. "Syl, you don't have to hold it in." he spoke gently after a moment.

She took a bite of bread. "I'm not." She said after she finished chewing. "You saw..." a sigh escaped her, and she set the slice back down on the trey. "You saw what I was last night. You know I haven't..." breath left her.

"I saw you hurting." He shifted a little as though he wanted to wrap an arm around her. Robb always wanted to help, always wanted to make her heart stop hurting whenever something struck it. "I still see you hurting. This sort of hurt doesn't fade after a night." He said it as though he knew, and somehow, his sureness irritated her.

"My life does not  _end_  because my father isn't part of it anymore." She snapped, turning to him to glare at him with burning blue eyes. "And if you haven't noticed, he hasn't been a part of it for a very  _long_  time." The sharpness of her voice quietened him and after a moment he removed his hand.

The lady bit her lip. She should not have snapped; she knew that he was just trying to help. But his help just prodded an open, bleeding wound, and it was her instinct to flinch away so as to not rip it open further. Sylvia couldn't bring herself to speak again for a long while, busied herself eating the rest of her breakfast in the meanwhile.

Her anger felt righteous, but when there were only crumbs on her plate, the uncomfortable silence began to eat away at her. She wondered why he hadn't left after her scalding words.

 _Ever the honourable sort, my husband. Can't stand to leave a lady in a terrible state_.

"Robb...don't treat me like broken glass. I am not  _feeble_." from the corner of her eye, she saw his head turn and felt his eyes on her. She could not look at him, and poked at the fork still on her plate. "It will just..." she swallowed. The more she tried to word it, the harder it became, and she was starting to feel very exposed. "I'm sorry; I  _don't want_  to talk about it. There is nothing to say."

For a long moment, he was quiet, drawn between pressing further and letting her be. He knew there was plenty more to say, much more she had to let out because this sort of pain could not be expressed all in one evening. But Sylvia was a private woman, hesitant to show the barest hint of vulnerability. These last few years, her walls had thinned and she showed her truest self more often—smiles, quips and even tears coming without second thought. But ever since the Imp was seized by his mother, it was if all her old defenses had risen again.

Because of this, (because he could not  _tell_  her the truth), she'd distanced herself from him—perhaps out of spite, or perhaps she didn't want to see him lying through his teeth. Every day he reminded himself of what could happen if she knew what he suspected of her family. He would not lie to himself and think all of their troubles were past now that the Imp was freed. He thought of the queen, and the traps she and her father would set for his family. He thought of his father and sisters, down in the thick of it, and his mother, far off with an aged knight for protection. He thought of Sylvia and their child and what would happen to  _them_  if they were exposed without warning, and it made it a little easier to hold his tongue.

But he wanted to show her he was still the same man she'd married, one she'd placed all her faith in. He wanted to be her comfort, the one who grounded her when everything else might feel wild and mad. He just wanted her to feel better.

So Robb wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close and noting the way she didn't relax as quickly as she once did. Slowly, she turned to him, meeting his gaze tentatively. His eyes were full of startling warmth and kindness, and she felt the burn of tears begin, and hid her face against his neck at once.

"You're not broken glass. You will be fine." He sounded determined as he rubbed her shoulder. But still, she wondered if he were assuring her or himself, if he thought she'd break into pieces like before, put together again just to fall apart, over and over. The thought stung, but with it, came a curious need to prove his doubts false.

Robert Baratheon was dead, and  _Seven Hells_  did it hurt...and all she wanted to do was crawl beneath her covers, shut out the light and cry until she was asleep again.

But she couldn't. She was Lady Stark now, and Winterfell had already had a lady shut herself away. Robb couldn't handle everything himself while she hid herself away, and the boys would wonder where she was. Enough people had left them already. Her appointments needed answering, and she'd be damned before she let the men and women of Winterfell take her for a lazy wife.

People were not kind with their words; she learned that at an early age. It didn't matter who you were, how strong you were, or how young; people would always find flaws with their betters. Her Uncle Tyrion had taught her that, and he'd also reminded her she was a princess—worthy and deserving of respect.

It was a matter of pride for Sylvia, that her heartache not give rise to whispers among her husband's people. But at her core, her misery confused her. She thought, perhaps, with Robert's death, all his past offenses against her would melt away—forgotten, if not forgiven. Instead, the awful memories remained, clear and fresh as ever. And yet, despite every foul recollection, the sorrow remained. Why? If he had hurt her so much, why did his loss tear her apart?

 _Because he was 'father'_ , something whispered.  _And there will never be another like him._

A lump rose in her throat, and she couldn't let Robb see. So she clenched her eyes shut, and nodded her agreement against his shoulder. When the tears were shoved back, she straightened, and moved the food trey to the side with Robb's help. Sylvia held her baby close, breathing in the scent of her hair before running a hand through her black curls, watching the strands smooth and bounce back.

Minisa was everything good in the world—warmth, love, potential—and she never failed in making Sylvia's heart sing with hope.

Sensing she would talk no more of King Robert's death, Robb said, "A bard is due to come to Winterfell before the next moon. I will send for him to come to the Great Hall for you. Would you like that?"

After a moment she nodded, a tiny, pleasant smile on her lips.

* * *

She was made to rest for the remainder of the day. Rest was what they called it, Robb and Maester Luwin. Sylvia had sighed at them when they brought it up, but allowed them whatever peace of mind her 'resting' brought them. Maybe they'd stop looking at her like she would start crying at a word if she 'rested'.

But she could not remain idle, and neither could she sleep. So she requested that Mini stay with her and after a bit of convincing, Robb and the maester agreed, upon the condition that Elane remain with her, should she have need of her. Sylvia didn't hesitate to agree, but once the men were gone, she realized it would be uncomfortable being watched all day, and so ordered the maid outside with a few borrowed books to keep her occupied.

It was a rare, near forgotten feeling, to spend the day with her little baby. When Mini had been born, Sylvia had spent hours with her, playing with her, feeding her, rocking her to sleep, and never once had she been bored of it. As little Minisa grew and needed her mother less and less, the southern girl's duties began to rise elsewhere—in the castle, in the maids and stewards, and eventually, in little Bran and Rickon. She saw Mini every night, greeted her every morning, but how long had it been since she spent the day with her?

Sylvia was content, the giggles and squeals and babbles of her child took her back to a time when things were simple, easier and filled with joy.

But suddenly, as she rocked the cradle gently to lull her baby to sleep, Sylvia realized that one day, she too would be gone from the world, leaving Mini alone to walk through it by herself...

...And just like that, woeful tears burned her eyes and down her cheeks, because even in her imagining— _years and years into the future_ —Mini was still a sweet, defenceless little baby, needing her mother to protect her from the world and all its cruelties. What if she needed her one day? What would she do then? Who would help her, protect her?

Logically, Sylvia knew that Mini would one day marry, and then it would be her husband who would keep her safe, but that brought a whole new line of questions and another wave of tears. Would she live to see Mini wed? What if her husband was a brute, or a simpleton? Who would comfort and assure her on her wedding day? Who would tell her, honestly, what it would and should be like in the marriage bed?  _What if, what if, what if?_

Always, the questions were of the same theme: What if Mini needed her one day and she was dead?

By the time Mini was asleep her mother was a red eyed mess.

In another wave of horror and fear, she realized the same idea pertained to her and Robb. Which of them would die first? What would the other do afterword? A sudden sob broke from her chest and Sylvia covered her face in her hands, taking slow sharp breaths between her fingers. She couldn't stand the thought of marrying another man—no man would ever replace or fill the part of her heart that belonged to her husband.

They—her brothers, if the Starks dismissed her from their castle—couldn't easily press her into marrying again—she'd borne Robb's child, it wasn't as though a would-be suitor could pretend she were chaste, and what man in this country wanted a spoiled wife? Her Faith would not approve either, as they could invalidate any marriage they deemed fit. But of course, exceptions could be made with the right sort of approval.

When she was little and her mother brought her to take in Court, she'd watched a noble man plea for her father to arrange a match for his daughter, as no other noble man would take her now that she was sullied with a bastard boy at her breast. "Besides," he'd said. "No septon would wed them  _if_  someone looked past her bastard." He'd spat the words and glared at her father as though he wished him dead, and Sylvia had whispered to her mother, asking why he was so cross. The queen's nails had dug into her fine chair, and she never answered, staring at the man with an expression hard as stone. Her father was quiet a moment, and then thundered out that he'd arrange the girl a match, and by the year's end, she had a husband.

It was only later that she learned that the girl's bastard was said to be Robert's.

She wondered where the bastard was now, and then wondered why she should care.

Her brothers would likely insist she marry again, if Robb left her too soon. Even amongst nobility, spinsterhood was a shameful thing. But she'd have to be dragged by her hair to a septon before she agreed, and even then, she'd refuse to say the vows, and whatever daft marriage they forced upon her would be invalid.

As for Robb...well, it is difficult to say. As a man of the Old Gods, he needed no septon's approval to remarry. As a lord, his people would expect it, but it would be his choice. Robb could not marry another woman after her, she knew it. He'd honour her, until his last day, just as he'd vowed to. But even as she thought it, she cast a look at Mini, and was once more reminded that Robb needed a son, a proper heir to rule after him. What if she could not give one to him?

Her heavy thoughts made it hard to keep from crying, and she was afraid Mini would wake. She breathed deeply, her breath coming fast as her shaking hands gripped at her arms so tight, that she thought her nails might tear through her shawl.  _Stop it_ , she thought furiously, feeling her heart start to pound through her ribs.  _It's accomplishes nothing to bask in fears that will never come to light._ Robb is alive, I am alive. Mini will live until her black hair runs white, she will marry and know love and have children of her own.

 _Everyone is where they ought to be,_  she assured herself. But that didn't shake the fear.  _Father_  was just where he ought to have been, and yet that had gotten him killed. His guard had not raised a hand in defence of him, and they had all but helped the bloody beast along in eviscerating him.

The men of Winterfell were not so ineffective. They protected, they guarded without fail—but abruptly, she recounted Bran, and the lowly rat who'd come to his chamber at night with intent to kill him, only to be met by his brave lady mother, and his fierce dire wolf.

Shaken, the lady stood, (almost stumbling), running a hand through her tangled hair as she paced. One, two three, turn, one two three, turn, one two three...

On and on she counted her steps, moving her feet to the racing of her heart, reciting over and over that nothing was out of place, and that her fears and anxieties were wrought from grief and were no reason to fret over.

It made her feel a little better, allowed her heart to slow and calm to settle over her.

She knew these questions were best not dwelled upon, as they were impossible to answer and were more likely to bring despair. But what mortal doesn't ask questions with impossible answers, especially when they concerned someone so close to heart?

A distraction, that's what she needed. Something to occupy her until this dark cloud moved on from her. Though her duties as a lady were denied to her, she had other things to delve into. The embroidery by the fire, neglected for too long, were a testament to that. She took up the embroidery wheel, where a kitten remained half finished, and began to work.

* * *

By nightfall, it was only Ser Fredrik who'd come to visit her all day. Bran and Rickon steered clear, either by Robb's orders or their own, she knew not. She was oddly relieved for that. It was too soon to see them.

But when Fredrik entered her chambers, a wave of relief knocked into her, startling her and nearly bringing her to tears. She'd gone and hugged him without thinking, her arms wrapped tight around him like she was afraid he'd dissolve away. It felt like King's Landing, like something she'd thought she'd lost. She hadn't even noticed she started crying until her old knight raised a hesitant hand to pat her back.

"There, there." He mumbled softly, reminded of all the times when he'd tried to stop her tears as a little girl, his affection growing for her, and making him want to shield her from the all the cruelties of the Red Keep. But she was not his charge anymore. She was not his to protect and defend. That was Robb Stark's job now. Yet here they were and he was unable to protect her from the sting of loss.

Her gasping sobs twisted his heart and he wished she'd hated her drunken father, just so his brutal end didn't grieve her. He never truly hated the king before, but he did then, and it felt as heavy and lasting as resentment a hundred years old. For years in King's Landing he'd watch as Robert stumbled through fatherhood, embarrassing, maiming and shunning his children with a few badly placed words. More than once, he'd tried to deflect Sylvia from seeing the ugliest of her father's nature. Had that been as wise as he'd thought?

When her tears were spent, she pulled away from her former protector, hastily composing herself as though she'd somehow offended him.

"I apologize." She murmured stiffly after a moment. "I'm a fool." He was quiet, and she looked up at him, no longer sheepish, but questioning. "But how can he just be—just be gone? I n-never got to s-see him again, I never got to tell him—" her voice broke off

"It's alright," he assured her. "It's alright to weep, little lady."

"I want to  _scream_." She snapped. "He wasn't supposed to die. He was drinking, got himself into that mess. He got himself killed, and I am  _angry_." Her fury suddenly sapped, Sylvia sagged, her face twisted in misery. He watched, rooted to the spot, as Sylvia's hand shot out, her fingers clenching around the post of her bed so tight he saw her hand tremble.

Without thinking, he moved forward and pulled her hand off. "Don't. You'll hurt yourself." He chided gently.

For a long moment, Sylvia stared at him with watery eyes, looking as though she wanted to say something more, but kept quiet. He put her hand down by her side, giving a hesitant smile. "A pillow is better suited for sudden acts of violence. Better than wood poles anyway."

There was nothing more Fredrik thought to say, and he thought of taking his leave, since it didn't seem like the lady wanted company, but before he could speak up, Sylvia wound her arms back around him, resting her head against his chest.

"I can live without him." She sounded sure and stern. "Am I wicked, for feeling this way? Am I a foul daughter?" she asked quietly after a moment.

Fredrik scoffed, patting her back gently. "No. You did your duty by your father, and you were mindful. The king was proud to have you." He said it even though he didn't know if it were true. He could not speak for a dead man, but what father wouldn't be proud of who she'd grown into? The king would have to be a blind and deaf fool not to see.

* * *

As the sun descended in the sky, candles and torches replaced its radiant beams, and men set down their work for the day to return to their families.

In the silence of her chambers, Sylvia sat on her bed with her child between her legs, Mini's back to her belly with a great tome balanced on the lady's thighs. It was a tome she'd gotten as a gift from her Uncle Renly, just before she'd been sent off.

It was a thick book, bound in leather and iron, a rearing stag etched into the leather of the cover, and the words  _History of Storms End_  carved into the iron lining the spine. The thick yellowed pages held all the great stories of the rulers of Storms End, beautiful illustrations strewn through the tome with some taking up whole pages, while others took up small corners. The first few pages were dedicated to Durran Godsgrief, who was the first Storm King. She loved that story best. Durran had dared to challenge the gods of the sea, building castle after castle, suffering loss after loss,  _all_  for love. He'd taken the sea god's daughter, Elenei, to wife, rebuilt every castle they destroyed with their storms, and at last erected the only castle capable of withstanding the rage of the gods and sea. His strength made her proud, and the ferocity with which he loved his queen was endlessly astounding, and somehow beautiful.

She read out the histories to her daughter, pointing out the pictures and explaining them. "One day," she murmured softly to Mini. "This will belong to you. So you never forget that half of you is Baratheon, and that we are stronger than any storm."

Nearing the end of the book, they came across the story of the Last Storm Queen, Argella Durrandon. Not thinking much of it, Sylvia began to read.

"After the fall of Argilac the Arrogant, his daughter, his only surviving heir, barred shut the gates to the castle that was now hers to defend. Word carried by the wind said it was Orys Baratheon, the bastard who wished to marry Argella and bring Storms End to heel, who killed Argilac in combat. By nightfall, she crowned herself the Strom Queen, and vowed that Storms End would not yield to the dragons. Fierce and brave though she was, her cowardly men betrayed her when one of the Conqueror's sister-wives landed with her dragon. They bound Argella, naked and gagged and threw her at Orys Baratheon's feet. But he was gentle to her; he wrapped her in his own cloak and fed her, and commended her father's bravery and skill at combat." Once she thought this had been a very romantic tale since love grew from something so dark, but the more she read, the more her disgust grew. "He wed her, and took her sigil and words as his own. But there are rumors that it was years before Argella even came to be content with him. It's rumored she tried to kill him on their wedding night." She'd never believed that before, because it seemed so dishonourable and snakelike.

But now she could see it, for nothing Orys ever did could atone for the life he took from Argella. How cruel could Aegon have been to condemn her poor ancestor to marry her father's murderer? Argella must have tried to kill her husband more than once.

The door creaked open and Robb appeared from the darkness, the candlelight making the stands of red in his hair shine like copper.

"Hello." She greeted.

"Hello. What are you reading?" He asked, loosening the ties on his doublet as he pointed to the tome.

"The story of Argella."

"Is that the one about the Targaryen prince who broke his betrothal with Lord Baratheon's daughter?" his nose scrunched up as he tried to remember his lessons.

"No." She said. "Argella Durrandon. The last Storm Queen who was made to marry her father's murderer." Her voice was low and calm and Robb sensed something was simmering beneath.

He came to kneel beside her, his hand reaching for hers. "Why are you reading such sad things?"

She met his eyes, her hand flipping so she could wrap her fingers around his. Mini, still fascinated with the book, beat her tiny hands against it with excitement and beamed at her father before returning to her book. "It wasn't always sad." She blinked away any trace of doubt or despair, replacing it with certainty. "It's the history of my family. Mini should know it."

"Getting her started early on history lessons, are you?" he smiled.

"If she's anything like you, she will need them." She smiled back. It wasn't hard to tease him or to smile, surprisingly enough. But her heart was not in her smile or her words. It was too heavy for such things still.

After a moment, his face darkened, his expression becoming sombre and serious. "We need to talk about what we will do when we are called upon by Joffrey to swear fealty to him. When you feel well enough to travel."

She looked away, a little piqued that he brought it up now. It also shamed her to know her grief was now classified as a sort of illness. "Can we talk about this tomorrow?"

Tomorrow, two days from now, or even a month from now, it made no difference to him. He'd only kneel to Joffrey because the Realm would brand him a traitor if he didn't. He only brought it up now because he didn't know if she wanted to travel right away, or if she wanted to wait. "Aye." He didn't expect her to suddenly tug her hand from his, but hoped she did not see his disappointment. She moved her hand over the surface of the book and then turned the page on the story of Argella.

The young lord stood and sat on the edge of the bed, returning to unlacing the front strings of his doublet, until it hung loose off his body, revealing the rough spun tunic beneath. "Perhaps I should start Mini on sums lessons. Because if she's anything like you, I'm already behind." He mocked.

Her leg knocked into his back, a smile returning to her lips.

* * *

Their supper came and went, and as Sylvia sat by her vanity, finally deciding to brush the tangles from her hair, she heard the few words that snapped the dam inside her heart.

Mini had begun fussing, loud angry grunts filling the air, and Robb knew at once what she wanted. "Come here, my girl. It's alright. You'll see Grey Wind again tomorrow."

 _My girl_...she tried not to linger on the way the two simple words made her heart tug, but they kept swirling round and round in her head, memories pulling from the farthest corners of her mind.

 _Father used to call me that_ , she thought _._ It had been something that made her feel special to Robert because there was no one else he called by that name.

One memory led to another, and that led to another one, and before she knew it, her mind was reeling with memories of her father. The day she left the Capitol, he'd kissed her forehead, patted her back and told her to be good for Ned. He'd sent a letter to her after she fell from a tree and cut herself on a log, and did not ask about her health like mother had, nor did he chide her as Lord and Lady Stark had. Instead he'd only said that every scar is a reminder something tried to kill you and failed. She remembered her wedding day, the ceremony when he'd walked her to her husband, when he'd told her she looked good in her dress. The wedding feast, when he'd drunk so much, he felt up a serving girl's thighs as though he were in a whore house.

She remembered the things  _not_  said—things she'd kept quiet about because at the time, she hadn't known what to say, or knew it wasn't her place to voice her thoughts. She remembered saying the  _wrong_  things, mentioning the Targaryens or being bratty, which had invoked Robert's irritation. She remembered the bruises he'd given her mother, the arguments they'd had, and the noise that had echoed though their apartments on the rare event he visited the queen.

She remembered his rare smiles, his pats on the back. The times, almost too faint to remember, when he'd lifted her up into the air, and never once feared falling.

It came upon her suddenly—like a blow from a hammer—the realization that she would never make another new memory with Robert. What was, was all there ever shall be, good and bad. All opportunity was lost and that hurt more than anything.

The brush felt heavy and it slipped from her hand and clattered on to the floor. She knew it probably startled Robb, but he felt a hundred miles away. Sylvia felt the tears burning her eyes and the wetness of them on her face, but she could only hear a rush in her ears. But even with blurred eyes, she recognised her husband as he knelt before her and heard his voice break through the buzz.

"Syl, Sylvia. Look at me. What is it? What can I do?"

"Robb, I..." She whimpered out before she hid her face in her hands. She felt his hands on her knees, felt his need to comfort and assure and his distress at not knowing how. More tears flooded down her face and a pathetic noise of pain broke from her lips. From her cradle, Mini watched them with wide blue eyes, confused as to why her mother made such frightened sounds, and wanting to go to her. Mini had never seen her mother cry. Sylvia had never allowed her to, because she said "When your mother cries, it's as though seeing the mountain sway in the storm".

"I don't know what to say," he confessed. "But I'm here. Here with you, beside you always. Share yourself with me, unburden yourself with me."

His admission slowly brought her hands away, revealing her face to him.


	24. When You Try Your Best...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEYY! This chapter was meant to be longer, but with how it was shaping up, it would have been 10K + words all together, and there's a lot happening, so I thought I'd split it in two. So, good news: the chapter should be out soon :D
> 
> shout out to darkwolf76, who, without her amazing effort, and kindness, this chapter would have been out months from now :D
> 
> Oh, and how great was season 6? Fan service, like 80% of it, I'm sure. but it was fantastic! :D

Chapter 21: When You Try Your Best...

Grief was not an emotion Sylvia had experienced, at least not quite like this.

To be sure, she'd seen grief, heard the wails it garnered, the despair people could fall into in the aftermath. The wails were the worst thing. Heartbroken, helpless cries of grief that could not be soothed, no matter what anyone said, or did, or offered in comfort. Sylvia found it hard to brush off the sound, and she could still remember it, the way it echoed off the stone walls. It made her feel ill, even now.

In the days following the news of Robert's passing, Sylvia couldn't find it in her heart to leave the safety of her chambers. She didn't want to see anyone—especially not the boys, though she never said so. But by day three, the walls began to feel small, and she left Elane with her daughter so she could venture through the castle.

She went into the kitchens to see what they'd planned for supper. The shocked faces of the cooks and wenches had made her smile, and the entire visit had been most enjoyable, simply based on that. In the Glass Gardens, she plucked a winter rose from its bush and went to the little sept, laying it at the Father's alter. She prayed for him to give her father rest, wherever he was in the afterlife.

After those three short adventures, she was weary and found herself in her solar, staring into the fire, enclosed by very similar grey walls that she'd previously grown sick of. But the quiet was good; not having to worry about how others would see her in this state was welcome.

As she watched the flames flick over the logs, she remembered how Catelyn had shut herself away, alone with her sleeping son and her agony. She remembered how Rickon had cried and threw fits, missing his mother, frustrated and hurt over why she wasn't the same warm, loving woman she always had been. She remembered how she'd grown angry at her good-mother.

Shame twisted her heart. Although Sylvia knew her pain over her father's passing could not match Catelyn's pain for her child's accident, she felt she could understand better how the lady had fallen so low.

But she could not, would not let herself go into that dark place, with grief her sole companion. With the thought in mind, she set off to find Elane and Mini, planning to spend a little time with her favorite former hedge knight.

Sometimes she still longed for empty walls, and silence. Sometimes she just thought over and over again on how she just wanted everything to be normal again, and then grew very sad to know nothing was normal anymore. Catelyn was gone, and had kidnapped her Uncle Tyrion. Her cruel Uncle Jaime attacked her good-father, killed his guards, and left him with a bad leg. Her grandfather set his rabid dog loose on the riverlands in retaliation. And now her father was dead.

But it would mend now. Tyrion had been freed justly, after his champion won his freedom in combat at the Eyrie. Her grandfather would surely reign his forces back in, so that Joffrey's rule did not start with a war that had erupted due to pride and brashness. It would be difficult, there was no doubt.

And she would mend, too. She would move past this, until one day, thinking of her father no longer brought with it, a pinch of regret.

Sylvia awoke to a different sort of pinch, on the morning after her seven days of grief concluded.

"Ow," she mumbled as Mini's tiny, delicate fingers pinched her lips, forcing her awake. The baby only smiled a toothy smile, kicking her legs merrily, and clenched tighter before her mother batted her hands away. The young parents decided on a whim to put the baby between them as they slept, and though Sylvia suspected it was more for her benefit, she couldn't deny that it had been a very restful sleep.

On the other side of the bed, Robb slept on, sprawled out on his back, with one arm stretched over the infant's head and the other dangling off the edge. Sylvia felt his fingers brushing her hair, and remembered how she'd fallen asleep with his fingers stroking the dark strands. She wanted to remember him like this—all sprawled out, mouth agape, staying on the bed by some miracle.

It was one achingly long week since the news had reached them. In the Faith of the Seven, the gods granted seven idle, workless, silent days for the bereaved to grieve a loss close to heart. Although Sylvia was not a very pious woman, she undertook the tradition without a second thought. She'd been named in the Light of the Seven, taught by her sweet Septa Bryda from the Seven Pointed Star, and had not known of the Old Gods until she was nine. The Old Gods were not hers.

More than once, she wondered if people judged her very harshly for acting as she had, and mourning in the southern fashion, but people had been very kind to her, (not that they ever were not), and no one mentioned it.

But now the Seven Days of Greif was done, and she could return to being Lady Stark. Honestly, she looked forward to it. After seven days of stewing in her bad feelings she wanted something to wash it all away, to start anew and move away from it. Besides, work could not be halted, not for her and not for Robb. And Robb had tended to the north by himself for too long.

Despite losing his wife to grief for a week, Robb never complained while she mourned. It felt good to know her husband was beside her in this, no matter how pathetic she thought she was, and not matter how strained he became.

Yet even though Robb tried to understand and offer encouragement there were times he just...didn't. His comforts would fall flat, his gestures would hurt, his words felt meaningless. She couldn't fault him though. He had two parents still, and there was nothing sinful with being fortunate.

"Silly girl," she whispered to the baby as she tickled her round belly. Mini's laughter made her mother smile. "I'm not Grey Wind. I don't enjoy your pinches." One day, after praying in the sept for her father's rest, she returned to find her little baby pulling on the dire wolf's snout and ears, as Robb read maps by his chair. Just as she'd been about to run over to the two, screaming at the animal to get away from her baby, she watched as Grey Wind gave a long suffering sigh, blinking silently at the child as she giggled.

Maybe Robb is right, she'd thought. Maybe direwolves do understand gentleness. "Your father might, though, sweetling."

Carefully, Sylvia turned the baby towards Robb, and as soon as the infant had her father's face in her sights, there was no stopping her grabby little fingers. Her husband grunted sleepily as Mini pinched his face, raising his head and finding two pairs of blue eyes shining back at him.

With a sleepy sigh, Robb dropped his head back to the pillow. "Wicked woman." He mumbled groggily, rubbing a hand over his face. Sylvia grinned, propping herself up on her elbows as Mini reached up for Robb's chin.

"It's time to wake up. Winterfell awaits, the boys await, sweet, patient, wise Maester Luwin awaits." She said in a light tone. "Oh, and breakfast waits too. Bacon, and eggs, and freshly made bread...bacon, Robb."

Robb grumbled, turning away from them, onto his side, as though sleep would come again. "That's the last time she sleeps with us." He grumbled, his voice heavy with sleep.

"It wasn't all so bad." She murmured back to him mildly, raising her hand to brush her fingers along his shoulder. She felt his shoulders tremble a little. "I got used to the kicking." She smiled merrily down at the child, leaning down to kiss her sweet brow. "And you're the one who suggested she sleep with us." She reminded.

"I didn't think she'd kick me to the edge of the bed all night." He yawned, swinging his legs over the edge. He walked towards the bowl of cool water, taking up a rag to wash his face.

Sylvia smirked at his back, her eyes flashing over his strong shoulders and the corded muscle that gave him strength to wield a sword. She wondered how he'd look swinging a sword, without a cloak, a doublet or a wool shirt to cover him up, and flushed hotly.

"Direwolf master and Lord of the North can't conquer his own bed because his infant daughter's tiny feet were kicking him." She smiled, her heart light at their easy banter.

"You'd bow down to her too if her sharp little talons were digging into your back." Robb laughed.

The Starks broke their fast in the Great Hall, and afterwards, Robb sent Rickon to his lessons with Maester Luwin, and took Bran with him to teach the boy himself. Now that Bran could never be a knight, his mind had to be sharper than the sword he would never wield, else life would be...rather limited and joyless. Sylvia hurt to imagine such a life for the sweet boy.

Bidding them farewell for now, Sylvia walked along the parapet leading from the Great Hall through to the Great Keep. From the height, she could see the blackened, half collapsed roof of the Library's tower. Her shoulders tensed to see it, to remember the night when Lady Catelyn and her son nearly died beneath a blade. At her insistence, Robb was set out to repair it swiftly, and fill it once more with books, so that when Catelyn returned, she never had to see it and remember, and fall back into despair.

Sylvia hurried along, climbed up the stairs into the Great Keep, and soon came to the familiar, pain wood door.

Inside her lady's solar, she was not very surprised to find a good pile of scrolls and letters waiting for her.

As Lady Stark, it was her duty now to keep ties between House Stark and the rest of the north strong and friendly. One day, one of these noble lords may take in her sons to foster beneath their roof. If not, other vassals may desire to send their sons (or even daughters) to Winterfell, so they might learn, and play, and become well rounded little lords and ladies.

Mini would be ripe for marriage one day, and good, strong connections with northern nobles could produce a good match for her girl. Even though a good match to a prominent heir would need the king's approval, Sylvia hoped a northern house won her hand. At least then her daughter wouldn't be half a world away, with people she did not know.

But beyond fostering, and betrothals, these houses were sworn to the Starks. Sworn to answer the call to arms, to protect and follow the Stark who sat at Winterfell. Sworn die, if needed, for their lord. She owed it to them to know them, to hear their complaints, and share in their joys and their grief. She would aid and defend the houses who asked it of her, send supplies and men if required. They were Robb's people, and so they were her people too.

As time went on, the maids came and went, coming in with a pitcher of water and leaving with instructions to deliver her messages of reply to Maester Luwin. One maid, Nera, remained behind, standing before her lady's desk and looking rather shy. When asked, she said a few kitchen wenches needed new dresses. She gave the girl her assurance that they will have the materials to make replacements, and sent her on her way.

Midway through morning, the castle's new steward, Andren Lorry arrived to inform her that the new batch of ale, beer, and wine would arrive later in the day. She found it a little amusing. New steward for the new Lady Stark, even though she wasn't really Lady Stark.

"Very good. I trust you'll make sure everything is in order when it arrives." He nodded. "While you're about it, send someone down to count how much cured meat we have in our stores. I want an exact number if Winterfell is not to flounder when winter does come." That was one of the first tings Catelyn taught her: always, always have more than you need in the stores. Winter, sieges, and famine can come suddenly—before anyone can properly prepare—and it was her duty to ensure her people do not starve.

Each scroll sent back and each order she made, was like...climbing a step in a tower. It was a small victory, but it filled her with a feeling of purpose and hope, and a drive to reach the top.

Hours ticked by, and soon the pile was diminished quite a bit. Her fingers ached and it wasn't long later that she entered the godswood, far from her responsibilities and worries...just for a while. Although her small victories filled her with a sort of warmth, she needed a rest.

She thought of taking her horse out into the moors, riding freely with the icy wind in her hair. That was the only time she didn't mind the northern cold, because astride her horse, galloping through fields with nothing in her way, Sylvia was free. Free of everything that had ever troubled her, or menaced her.

Oh, and it did sound so sweet, but it would take too long to get the horses saddled and her guards prepared. And there could be other wildlings out there in the woods, she added as an afterthought. She didn't really think there were any others out there, but she hadn't thought an assassin could breach Winterfell undetected, either.

The sunlight shone through the thick canopy of leaves above her head, and those little patches warmed her face for a brief second as she walked through them. There was peace in the godswood, one that even Sylvia could feel as soon as she stepped into the thicket, for not a single stone held foul memories. She'd become a Stark in this wood. Robb had announced their daughter's name in this wood. She'd played here as a girl, swam in the hot springs with her good-sisters...made love to her husband here.

True, she did not worship the Old Gods, but that didn't mean she found no peace in their sacred wood. But it was not a place of prayer and enlightenment to Sylvia. She went for the quiet.

Sylvia intended to sit at the base of the heart-tree, (turned away from the bloody eyes of the weirwood), but as she drew closer to the ancient heart-tree, the gentle sounds of wildlife morphed into the common tongue—a soft child's voice, and the husky voice of a woman. A voice she did not know.

Sylvia ran towards them, any sense of ease quickly forgotten.

She could see the heart-tree from here, the blood red leaves cutting through the greenery of the forest. But it was another moment before Bran and the wildling came into view, Sylvia stopping in her tracks to see them seated together before the weirwood. Talking unabashedly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

As a girl, Sylvia heard Old Nan's stories about the people beyond the Wall, and she had to admit, she was curious of the wildling at Winterfell. Robb had never even met a wildling before her.

Sylvia thought she couldn't be faulted for a little curiosity. She'd like to know where the strange woman had come from—if she'd ever seen a giant, or a flesh eater, if there were any castles north of the Wall, or if they truly did live in dug out huts. But her curiosity was tempered by the fact that this woman had tried to steal from sweet little Bran, and attacked her husband with a club.

Since the wild woman had surrendered, Robb spared her life and took her as prisoner, and set her to work in the kitchens. Sylvia had only seen her once—the day she was captured—and hadn't had any other desire to look upon her again. But she knew it was her the moment she set her eyes on the tangled rats nest that was her hair, and heard the soft clank of chains when she turned to see who'd come upon them.

"Bran!" the southern princess gasped, hurrying towards where they sat on the overturned log. She hiked her skirts up to her knees in her haste, not wanting to trip over them.

"Sylvie?" Bran voiced in shock, innocent blue eyes wide with surprise.

"What are you doing here?! You're supposed to be at your lessons!" Why wasn't he with Robb, or Maester Luwin? What was he doing talking with the thing that would have killed him, not a month before?! Sylvia wished she'd brought Fredrik with her. A big man with a big sword would have scared the wildling back where she belonged.

The boy blinked, stunned, and a touch frightened of his good-sister's sudden, loud appearance. She'd been so cheery this morning, but now she was yelling at him for not being at his lessons. He was only doing as Robb said—well maybe not exactly as he said. Robb had said to go and play, but he couldn't play the games Rickon wanted to play. While he wanted his brother to play with him, he didn't want Rickon sad either. So Rickon and Hodor went to play by themselves, and Bran thought he'd wait for them to come back. It was very boring, but then Osha came.

But Bran couldn't understand what had his brother's wife so upset. He hoped it wasn't him, and hoped she didn't make him go back to his lessons.

"Robb let us out for the day," he explained softly. "He told us to have some fun for a change."

Sylvia didn't look at him, and instead kept her eyes on the wildling. The wild woman's head turned down, not meeting Sylvia's eye. Sylvia felt her pride surge, believing the woman averted her eyes in respect, not knowing that it was anything but.

But Osha still saw her, from the corner of her eye. She'd heard from the cooks and kitchen maids, their queen—"m'lady", they called her, but they still served her like a queen—Sylvia, was a king's daughter, from far south.

When Osha had been captured, she'd been slung across the little lord's horse, and never saw Sylvia. Thus, this was the first time the wildling ever saw her new mistress, and honestly...she wasn't really impressed. M'lady Sylvia was a delicate thing, bundled up in a cloak of fine white fur, and pink face, either from cold or anger. She wouldn't last an hour north of the Wall. If the cold didn't take her, a man looking for a woman would, and when a fragile thing like her failed to give him strong sons, he'd have no use for her and do away with her.

And she was young, probably just had her blood a few years before, and the cooks said she had a babe at her breast too. Osha didn't understand why southerners followed who they followed, when who they followed seemed so frail.

"'Us'?! Rickon is here too?" She came to a stop beside the boy, her hands coming down to his shoulders as though ready to yank the boy away at the first sign of trouble. For a fleeting moment, she was surprised that a foul stench didn't pervert the air around the wildling, and then remembered the maids had treated her to a bath, and fresh clothes. Finally, she pulled her eyes from other woman and darted around in search of her other charge. "Where is he?"

"He's hiding." He felt Sylvia tense behind him. He looked up at her. "He and Hodor are playing hide-and-seek."

The southern girl relaxed some, but her eyes were still hard when she looked back at Osha. Bran didn't like it at all. Osha hadn't done anything wrong.

"You, wildling. Get back to the kitchens where you belong. Don't let me catch you out here again." Osha rose, looking up at the younger woman through her matted hair with a cool expression that Sylvia didn't know what to make of.

Without a curtsy, the woman uttered a simple, "Yes, m'lady." And was on her way, her chains clanging together as she walked. A constant reminder of who and what she was within the castle.

Bran pushed Sylvia's hands from his shoulders, twisting around as best he could to glare up at her. "Why would you do that?" Bran snapped as Osha's rattling chains faded with distance.

His good-sister moved around him, taking Osha's seat to meet his eyes. Her face was kinder now, and her voice was softer and sweeter. It only annoyed Bran further. He knew Osha was a wildling, and that her friend held a knife to his throat, but she'd yielded and was their guest at Witnerfell. Robb said so. His lord father said so. And Osha was one of the only people who didn't treat him differently. Perhaps it was because she hadn't known him as a boy with working legs, or maybe it was that she didn't want to ask him about it. But whatever the reason, she didn't walk on eggshells around him, nor did she make him feel incapable.

He was growing to really like her, and it angered him that Sylvia was ruining it.

"I don't want you near that woman. She's dangerous." Sylvia explained simply, hoping not to confuse him.

"No she isn't! I was talking with her for half an hour before you came. She didn't raise a hand to me once." He countered. "She was telling me about beyond the Wall and about the packs of direwolves that live there."

"I don't care, Bran." The anger was seeping back into her voice. It baffled Sylvia how he couldn't see that the woman was dangerous, how he didn't have better sense to protect himself, especially now when he couldn't run if he were cornered. "She was going to hurt you, and would have killed you if she had the chance. If Robb hadn't come along—" she stopped herself there, not wanting to frighten the boy by telling him the horrors that might have come to him.

Robb told her about that day. The still healing cut on Bran's leg was proof enough that they would have hurt him more if Robb had not come.

"You don't know; you weren't there!"

"I didn't have to be. That woman is a wildling, Bran." Her eyes bored into his, and Bran felt hurt and unease and cold fear in his belly, tangling and twisting like a ball of snakes. He didn't like that Sylvia was looking at him like that—it frightened him. Her hand found his and gave a firm squeeze. "She isn't like us. Wildlings are bad, they aren't honourable or merciful. She isn't a curiosity to marvel at—she's our prisoner. She could kill you and not think twice on it. I forbid you to speak with her."

Sylvia watched as Bran's face reddened, tears of anger welling in his blue eyes. She hadn't intended to make him cry, and suddenly wished she'd been softer to him. But he had to know, and she wouldn't apologize for telling him truths.

The boy wretched his hands from her, so suddenly the sting of his rejection stunned her to silence.

"You're not my mother!" he screamed suddenly. Sylvia felt herself flinch back, her eyes widening at the boy's words. "My mother is Catelyn Stark, you're not her. You can't forbid me to do anything!"

Bran tried to wretch away from her, as though he would stand if he could and run far away from her. But his legs could not move, and never would again, and so he remained on the log. Sylvia stared at him a long moment and the child stared back. Finally, she gathered herself, and sternly said, "I will. You're right; I am not your mother, but she would not approve of you becoming friendly with a wildling."

"You don't speak for her!"

"Bran, I am trying to protect you." She snapped.

"By being cruel to Osha just because you can? My mother would never do that."

Sylvia knew children threw tantrums. They got angry and yelled and kicked and begged and cried. But there was never a time, (other than when she was a child herself), that a child's words actually hurt her. She wasn't being cruel, was she? She was protecting Bran from a woman who could have hurt him. He's a child, she thought. He doesn't see the danger in befriending her. But still, Bran's eyes were filled with fire, and the pinch in her heart didn't dissipate.

The breaking of frozen leaves and twigs drew their attention to the left, breaking the stunned silence they'd fallen into.

"Hodor." The simple giant said when he stepped from the trees. The two looked to the smiling stable boy, little Rickon settled on his back, blinking at them curiously from his perch. Sylvia knew the little wolf had likely heard some of their argument, and was afraid to speak to them. At the boy's dangling feet, a pair of green eyes blinked from the foliage. Shaggy Dog, she realized with a start. Her eyes darted to Rickon's other foot, and sure enough, a silver and smoky grey direwolf stepped into the clearing.

Was Bran ever really in danger with Summer and Shaggy prowling the wood? Summer had already killed a fully grown man to protect his master. Heat flooded her cheeks. They should have been at lessons, she thought sourly. Then none of this would have happened. Why had Robb chosen today of all days to give them a free day?

Sylvia stood, brushing down her gown softly, nothing letting on that she was itching to leave the godswood. "Hodor, stay with Bran and Rickon. Don't let either of them out of your sight." Her hands clasped together, the leather of her gloves creaking softly under her tightly clenched hands.

"Hodor." Hodor nodded.

"And if you see that wildling girl, keep away. Don't let her near the boys."

"Hodor." He said again, smiling and bowing slightly to the lady.

With a nod, the new Lady of Winterfell turned from the three, not seeing Bran turn his eyes down, a flash of guilt in his eyes.

She wanted to see Robb. She wanted to know why he'd let the boys out into the godswood without proper guards to keep them safe. Wanted to know why the wildling woman was permitted out of the kitchens and why he thought it a good idea to suddenly veer off the day's plans. Without even telling her about it, so she'd had no idea what the boys were doing.

The trees passed her by like a green blur, until she was greeted by the stink of the kennels. She heard the hounds barking and whimpering in their stalls, and grinned stiffly at them as she walked by, their wide little eyes watching her curiously, noses twitching.

When she was a girl, her mother gave her a puppy, who she'd named Spots. He was a good pup, followed her everywhere. But when Joffrey butchered some poor kitchen cat, she begged Fredrik to take her pup away. Sylvia was so afraid that Joffrey would come for her furry companion next. Her knight told her Spots went to a good family, safe and far from Joffrey. Even now, as a grown woman, she didn't want to believe anything less.

Direwolves were not dogs; they didn't need much protecting. They could tear a dozen men apart, could carry children on their backs, and she had no doubt that Bran and Rickon were safe with their wolves. They were the only reason she didn't order Hodor to pick up both Stark boys and carry them back inside the castle.

But she felt on edge to know that they were out there in the first place. Anything could have happened out there, and without providing proper eyes to watch them, of course a threat had found them. No matter what Bran thought, it wasn't right for that wildling to approach him.

Sylvia clenched her teeth to think of the boy, her pride aching sharply. She could still see how his eyes had burned, blue eyes filled with fire that she'd never thought a child capable of. She couldn't understand why he was so angry. She was only trying to protect him. Did he truly think she was taking his mother's place? Sylvia had thought she was doing what any sane woman would do—what Robb or Catelyn would have done—but he obviously didn't think so.

In his anger, he'd called her cruel. Cruel was not a word anyone had ever used to describe her, not even in her worst, most wicked moments. Joffrey was the cruel one, never Sylvia. But Bran thought she was, and even if he would regret it later, in that moment he'd meant it. That fact ate away at her more than she'd like to admit.

She walked beneath the shadow of the library's tower, smelling the lingering stench of burnt stone and wood. The fire had done so much damage, and there was hardly a book that survived that was not scorched. Septon Chayle was toiling away in repairing them, just as the builders were in mending the tower. But for now...the tower was gone, and in its place was a blackened memory of the man who'd nearly killed two Starks.

"Good morn, m'lady." Greeted the handful of builders at the tower's base, nodding respectfully at her. Sylvia nodded in reply, plastering a smile on her face that no one would think was false, and hurried on.

The courtyard of Winterfell always bustled with activity, and today was no exception. Servants did their chores, blacksmiths forged their iron, butchers minded the animals, and in the middle of it all, stood Lorry, the steward. He shouted orders at a group of men as they unloaded barrels from a waiting cart. Doubtless, it was the kegs of ale, beer and wine he told her would be ready today.

"Lorry," she greeted as she approached him.

"Oh," he greeted, turning quickly bowing, seeming startled she'd appeared. "My Lady Sylvia, I am surprised you're here, you see, I've only just—"

"Where is my husband?" she cut him off swiftly, not wanting to waste time in pleasantries.

His always impassive face, slackened at her briskness, and he looked suddenly very clueless. Pathetically so, almost like a child who was trying to avoid getting in trouble. "He, er, he passed through not long ago, my lady. He said he was going to show little Lady Minisa the Glass Gardens."

Without another word, Sylvia turned from the befuddled steward and continued on through the yard, shoulders tense and face reddened. Servants made way for her as she passed them, wary of their lady and her temper, but also half wondering if this was a resurgence of her grief.


	25. But You Don't Succeed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was too much bloody fun to write XD

**Chapter 22: ...But You Don't Succeed**

On the far side of the godswood, settled beside the North Gate and enclosed by ancient moss covered walls, a glass and steel structure arose, bright and gleaming in the dim northern sun. Heated by underground hot springs, the gardens supported a wealth of vegetation that would never survive were it not for the pipes pumping the spring water throughout Winterfell.

In her first days as Lady Catelyn's ward, she'd been sullen, lonely for her home and for her family, and there was little that could bring a smile to her face. After being toured through Winterfell by the Stark sisters, she quickly decided the Glass Gardens would be her sanctuary from the rest of Winterfell. It was warm, it had familiar plants, and best of all, the Stark siblings  _never_  went there.

Her longing for home drew her to the humid gardens often. She would sit beside the box growing the carrots, feel the heat making her sweat in her thick northern dress, and close her eyes so she could pretend she was home—far from the Starks and far from the stupid boy her father wanted her to wed.

In her mind's eye, she could see the Red Keep, see Bryda, see her mother and father. She would play with Myrcella in their mother's apartments, setting up a pretend royal luncheon, setting three places, when only two of them would attend. But when she opened her eyes, she was back in the freezing north, feeling as though she'd lost something so vital to her existence, yet was made to live with the loss.

Time passed, and the princess warmed to her betrothed and came to accept Winterfell as her new home. Thus, her visits of indulgence to the gardens ceased. Women put away childish things, and pretending to be somewhere else was childish. The ache inside her faded, sure enough.

Sylvia all but ran through the grounds of Winterfell, her blood thundering in her ears as the frigid northern air burned her lungs with each quick breath. Her head spun with thoughts of that wildling, of the danger she posed to the young Stark boys. True, she'd yielded, and mercy was one of her husband's finest qualities, but she'd rather the wildling stay well  _away_  from her family.

The lady felt ill to think of what she could have done—what she might be capable of doing. She had reason enough, didn't she? Robb killed her companions, and took her prisoner, locked her in chains and set her to work. Wildlings surely didn't do things they way they did, and who was to say she didn't want revenge?

_But_ , a little thought suggested,  _what if she is trying to make amends?_  She scoffed to herself. The southerner had heard the stories of wildlings, how they stole, how they raped (a Stark ancestor had apparently been taken by some "King-Beyond-The-Wall" and birthed a son from the union) how they followed no law and no king nor lord. She doubted the wildling knew what amends meant.

And still, the foolish little thought was enough to slow her feet, and quieten the thundering in her ears.

When the structure came into view, doubt began to creep into Sylvia's blood. She didn't want to fight with her husband, not when she knew he was trying to enjoy a bit of time with their child. One late night, moons before, they'd stared down at their little baby, sleeping peacefully in her cradle. Robb turned towards her and told her that Mini made the world seem simpler, his troubles seem smaller.

Deep in her heart, she knew he'd only given the boys a free day out of kindness. But his kindness had sent them to a wildling—a  _chained_  wildling, but a wildling nonetheless.

Anything could have happened.  _Anything_. What if, somehow, that woman came upon Elane with Mini?

A rush of warm air washed over her when she pushed the wood door open, and then, suddenly, she was back home in King's Landing, soaking in the sun, breathing in the ocean, never knowing her days there were numbered. But then she heard Robb's voice, and let her head loll forward to rest against the frozen wood of the door.

"Look at this, sweet girl, look." she heard Robb say softly. "Your mother wanted to wear these in her hair when we wed." Sylvia pushed off from the door and stepped farther in. The door closed softly behind her, and Sylvia peeked around a tomato plant and spied her husband and daughter marveling at the winter rose bush a few feet away, unaware of her presence.

"But she wore a jewelled hair net instead."  _Mother said it suited me better_. "She was so beautiful that day, I couldn't believe she was real. I thought she was one of Theon's sirens, come to beguile me." The honesty in his voice made her smile, heat rushing to her cheeks. She watched Mini reach out a pudgy hand for the velvety soft petals of the blue rose, tiny fingers brushing against them before Robb drew back.

"Soft, eh? But sharp. See the thorns? You mustn't touch those."

A warm smile spread over her lips to watch them together, her anger losing its bite. It always made her happy to see them spending time together, because Robb was a good father. He loved Mini with all his heart; there wasn't  _anything_  he wouldn't do for her. Although she knew he had to be pragmatic about Mini's future, she believed he'd never propose a match for their baby without knowing she would be safe, and happy. He would never ship her off to some stranger with only selfish ambition in mind.

Robb's arm curled around Mini, who went without her wraps and furs in the humid enclosure. With her arms freed, one little hand curled in her father's auburn locks, while the other hand reached out for the winter roses again.

He looked happy, at ease. Gods knew there hadn't been enough of that in the last few months.

It was then that she stepped away from the tomato plant and started towards them, the nervousness in her belly fading away. At the sound of her footsteps, the young Lord Stark turned to see her, and Sylvia was struck for a moment. His smile was warm, and there was not a hint of caution in his face. Sylvia didn't take joy in the idea of pouncing on him now.

"Robb Stark in the Glass Gardens." She spoke, a shade of humor colouring her voice. "I never would have thought."  _Until Lorry told me, after you set the boys loose in the godswood._  She plucked up a pea blossom as she walked, holding it in her hands and twisting it between her fingers. "What made you decide to brave the humidity?" Robb got frizzy and sweaty in humid places. He didn't mind so much in the godswood hot springs, but the Glass Gardens was another matter entirely.

"I thought it was a good day to show her a garden." He replied, looking down at their child with a smile. In truth, it had been a raven's scroll that had been the root of it. A raven from his Uncle Edmure at Riverrun had come, bearing more news of the destruction of the riverlands. The Mountain—Tywin Lannister's lackey—hadn't attacked any holdfasts (yet), but the small folk and their homes were being reduced to rubble. Uncle Edmure concluded by asking for his nephew's support in defending his father's lands.

Of course Robb would back his uncle in any way he could, but when he voiced as much to Maester Luwin, he was reminded of the implications of such a deed. His House was still under scrutiny from the Crown, after his mother took the queen's brother as hostage. He was freed now, but still, the Mountain terrorized the Tully's lands, leaving behind ashes and homeless small folk.

If he acted, and sent aid to his mother's family, there could be consequences unforeseen to his House. To his father, his sisters, vulnerable in King's Landing.

With a heavy heart, Robb wrote out a short message back to Edmure. Bran was utterly confused at his brother's choice—he kept asking why they weren't going to help, why the Mountain was destroying their grandfather's lands in the first place, why they weren't going to help stop him when he was doing something unlawful. It was difficult to explain to the boy, and Robb's heart sank even further to the ground.

When had it stopped being simple? As he looked at Bran's face—confused and joyless—Robb made his choice. He called for Hodor and told Bran to get Rickon and to go have a bit of fun for a change. When his brother told him there would be no more lessons for the rest of the day, Bran didn't question him.

Once the two younger Starks were gone, Robb left as well, searching for a bit of solace.

"Mamamamamama." The baby babbled at seeing her, a smile brightening her sweet little face, two tiny teeth gleaming whitely.

Sylvia smiled back at her child, raising a hand to run her gloved fingers across her chubby cheek. "Hello, my sweet girl." She greeted her, holding the delicate flower out to her. The baby took it, staring at it with wonder, babbling excitedly as she examined it. Sylvia watched for a moment as her little fingers slowly approached the petals, seeming almost afraid of harming her new toy. Her heart ached with love at her sweetness, at her goodness.

"Did the boys not want to come?" she asked, tearing her eyes away from the baby, and looking back up at her husband.

He shook his head. "I told them to go play. It's been hard these past months. They've hardly smiled since mother went." His eyes turned down.

Rickon still asked after his father and sisters, after Jon, and now, after his mother. He asked mostly for his mother, though. Always, they'd tell the boy they'd gone because they had to, because duty had called them away. As if that would make him feel a little less lonely. Bran was still coming to terms with the loss of his legs, still getting used to the things he couldn't do, and the things that now required help.

She couldn't imagine how he must feel, to wake up with so much loss.

Suffice it to say the boys were not very jovial these days. Robb ought to have given them a free day sooner.

They needed their mother, needed her words, her love, her kindness.  _She will return soon_ , Sylvia thought, the notion giving her a bit of comfort. Tyrion was traveling back to King's Landing from the Eyrie and Eddard would track down her stupid Uncle Jaime with father's orders and—

Sylvia's thoughts stopped cold. It would be  _Joffrey's_  orders now that he was king, and Joffrey listened to mother above all. And mother loved Uncle Jaime. There was little chance for the slaughtered northmen to receive justice with Joffrey sitting the throne. She would be surprised if he even cared. The injustice of letting those deaths go unpunished would lay the first brick of many that would build her brother's rule as king.  _A weak foundation will not make for a very happy reign_ , the ominous thought made her shiver.

The north would never forget the murder of their men by the hands of Lannister guardsmen. Part of Sylvia feared they'd look to her and see nothing but the king's sister.

Gods be good, everything was  _changed_  with father gone. Often she had to remind herself that everything would be as  _Joffrey_  decreed it, as Joffrey deemed agreeable and just. She wanted to have faith, but she knew Joffrey. She knew how horrible and cruel he could be, and knew that at some point, something would displease him enough to bring out the monster in him. She only prayed it was not Sansa.

Yet, there may be some hope for the kingdoms. With Eddard Stark as his Hand, at least there would be  _one_  voice of wisdom and honour on the Small Council. The only other man she knew on the king's council was her sweet, dear Uncle Renly, but she knew him little when it came to his political opinions. When he wrote, he hardly talked of it, and it was a long time since he'd written to her. The last letter she'd been able to send to him was during her mourning period, and she did not expect an answer for a while yet.

Sylvia took in a short breath, reaching out and plucking a blue rose. "Next time, you must send them out with guards." From the corner of her eye, she saw Robb turn to her questioningly, and turned to meet his gaze, twisting the rose stem between her fingers. "I caught Bran talking alone with that wildling in the godswood." She explained, watching as he blinked in surprise. "I sent her back to the kitchens, and he got angry at me. So at least he's unharmed."

"They're still in the godswood?"

"With Hodor and their wolves."

Robb nodded, looked to their daughter, now happily pulling the petals out of her little flower. "I'll have words with him later." He promised.

"Have them with that wildling too.  _She's_  the one who ought to know better than to approach a little lord." She said coldly, remembering the way Bran had defended her, how his eyes had burned with determination and knowing, and suddenly, there was the strangest, most annoying sense of shame welling up in her belly.  _I've done nothing wrong_ , she thought.

Robb looked back up to her, listening to the anger of her voice. He could understand her feelings, but that didn't mean they were entirely called for. Not at this point. The wildling, Osha as she called herself, never complained about her station, or her chains. The cooks reported to him, and told him that she never complained about the work they set for her. More than a month passed them without incident from the woman, and Robb thought it fair to grant her the small freedom of leaving kitchens to seek solace with the gods.

"I'm not going to whip her in the streets, Sylvia." His voice was low and final. She was their prisoner, but also their guest since she'd yielded. To punish her for enjoying what freedom he granted her would be cruel, and bring shame upon him.

The southern girl blinked. "I'm not asking you to." She said, sounding a little affronted. A lashing sounded quite harsh, even to Sylvia.  _If there's ever a next time, perhaps_ , she thought. She hoped there was  _never_  a next time, both for Bran and for the wildling's sake. "Just remind her of her place here."

"She wears chains at all times. I don't think she'd ever forget her place here."  _Damn his quick wit_ , she thought. He was making it very difficult to stay angry.

"I don't like her talking to Bran." She countered indignantly. "It isn't right."

Robb raised an auburn brow. "All servants talk to their betters." He reminded her.

Her ears reddened. "But  _other_  servants didn't come under our employ after trying to strip a little lord of all his finery,  _or_  after trying to bash your head in. Other servants are not wildlings, without any sense of honour or control."

"What good would it do her to bring harm to Bran? A noose to swing from or a sword to chop off her head. The woman is bound in chains, so she can't get very far  _if_  she did harm him. She might be a wildling, but I don't think anyone is that stupid." Mini gave confused coo in his arms, her blue eyes leaving her flower to look up at her father.

Sylvia could not deny the logic in his words, and was quiet as she considered them, wondering if she was being ridiculous, if her worries had any merit. If the woman did not plan to hurt Bran or Rickon, was there still reason to be upset? But what if the wildling used her  _words_  to hurt him, telling him foul lies, making him feel wretched? Bran was already fragile, he didn't need someone filling his head with despair, or making him feel like he had no life without his legs.

"We've all been through hell, these past weeks." He reminded her gently, stepping closer to her. "I think we can allow ourselves one day of silliness before getting back to it."

A laugh broke out from Sylvia, and her amused eyes met his. "I think you're an imposter. This can't be my husband saying these things.  _Suggesting_  these things to me." Robb—her dutiful, lawful, lordly husband was suggesting...they play  _hooky?_

"Would an imposter know that you are dreadful at pulling carrots?" He teased, plucking the rose from her fingers and slipping it into the braid at her temple.

Sylvia blushed, a wide smile pulling at her lips, and she looked down to hide it. She'd run away to the Glass Gardens  _so_  often, that her betrothed's parents took notice, and in an effort to bring the two closer, they'd sent the lordling and the princess to the gardens together, tasked with picking carrots and onions for supper.

"This is servant's work." She complained as she half-heartedly tugged on the carrot leaves. Back in King's Landing, the princess had picked apples and strawberries with her little sister, but that was a lot less dirty, and more for fun than actual work. They'd also  _eaten_  most of what they harvested before they made it to the kitchens.

" _You_  can go back to mother and father empty handed if you like." Young Robb had groused back to her, yanking his onions from the dirt with a grunt, spraying the princess with damp earth. Indignant and wanting to prove herself, she gripped a carrot's leaves, and pulled hard, only for the leaves to rip off. The damned vegetable remained in the dirt, and she'd stumbled back and slipped on a bit of manure.

"That was  _once_ , you damned bully." She grumbled, lightly shoving his arm. "And  _anyone_  could know that, with how you laughed about it after." She got him back though, she was happy to say. With a little help from Arya, Robb's room had stunk for  _weeks_. Sylvia lost a dress to the stink of manure, but Robb lost an entire bed.

Robb got a thoughtful look on his face, and after a moment, it dissolved into wickedness.  _I'm the only one who gets to see this side of him. This playful side of him, unobstructed by formality, because he loves me and trusts me_. The thought gave her pleasure.

"Would an imposter know that you have a strawberry birthmark, very,  _very_  low on your back, shaped a little like a—"

"Shut it!" she hissed, rushing forward to cover Mini's ears. Robb chuckled, and let her take the baby from his arms.

"Mini, your father is a very mean boy." she jested to the infant, brushing her nose against the baby's. Minisa smiled at her mother, raising her little hands to her face.

"And your mother is terrible at pulling carrots." Robb countered, coming closer to his wife and child. The couple shared a smile, and for a moment, they were quiet, and enjoyed the peace of the moment.

But too soon, Sylvia's smile waned.

"I should get back." She said softly, swaying on her feet out of a habit formed when Mini was first born. "I want to send a guard to make sure that woman stays away from the boys." Even if Robb was right about that wildling not intending to harm the boys, she wanted the assurance of a sword close at hand.

"You sent her back to the kitchens, and the boys have their wolves. Don't fret over this, Syl, you've no reason to." Robb reminded, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "You know the boys are safe. I imagine they're trying to make the most of today, as well. We should too."

Sylvia considered this for a long moment. Robb made a keen offer, to be sure. She could play with Mini, could be with Robb and laugh and talk and just...be a family for a while. The notion of spending an afternoon with her husband and daughter made her pile of letters and scrolls and her open books accounting for the inventory of Winterfell's stores seem very...cold and unappealing.

"You're good at arguing your point. You'd be a fine vendor, you know."

Robb laughed.

* * *

Robb and his lady had long since left the Glass Gardens when Maester Luwin found them.

Mini had begun fussing, and Sylvia concluded it was hunger. So the lord and lady made way to the Great Hall to take in a late supper. Plates, cups and half eaten meals still remained left over from the servants taking their supper, and Robb piled a few plates up to make room for him and his wife. Before long, a serving girl set down two bowls of leftover lamb stew and a small serving of mashed turnips and carrots for Mini. Since Mini had taken to chomping down, Sylvia had begun to wean her off the breast.

They ate and talked happily, and by the time Mini's mashed vegetables was half gone, the babe was dozing sleepily in her mother's arms.

"Can we go riding, soon?" Sylvia asked, softly, mindful of her sleeping baby. "We haven't been out on our horses together in so long."

Robb grinned. "I thought you might not want to go after what happened in the Wolfswood."

When she smiled at him, it was full of mischief. "I wasn't thinking of riding to the Wolfswood. Maybe the moors will spin their magic a second time, and bless Mini with a brother." They shared a secret smile. In private, they liked to joke that they'd made Mini on a ride they'd taken through the moors. Their jovial ride took a pleasurable turn when they decided to rest at the base of a grassy hill, and soon they were tangled together, hidden where no one could see them, lost in a lusty haze until they pulled apart, breathless and sated.

As they smiled and made plans to run away for a private ride in the coming days, Maester Luwin found them, stepping into the Great Hall, his maester's chain rattling softly as he approached his lord and lady. For a moment, seeing them together at the table—laughing, smiling, a babe in the southern woman's arms—it was almost like watching Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn.

Lord Stark was Robb's age when he went off to war the first time, and now young Robb would have to answer the call to rescue his family, just as his father had years before.

"My lord, my lady," he greeted them. "This matter requires your immediate attention." His hands appeared from his sleeves, holding out a rolled up scroll to Robb. Sylvia could see the crimson seal, the roaring lion of House Lannister stamped into the wax. Sylvia felt her heart sink at the maester's solemn voice, steeling herself for whatever horrible news he surely had.

Carefully, still holding her sleeping baby, she lifted her skirts as she stepped out from the bench, standing beside her husband.  _Courage_ , she thought, lifting her chin _. A stag of Storms End doesn't flinch in the face of a storm_.

Robb took the scroll from his old teacher, and quickly read through the message with stern eyes. Sylvia watched him, her belly twisting a little when his brows furrowed with bewilderment. What could be scrawled on that little bit of paper?  _Dark wings, dark words_ , the saying went.

Finally, her husband spoke, and it was the worst possible thing he could have said. "Treason?" his voice filled with shock and horror alike.

Catelyn appeared in her mind. Sylvia paled. "Treason?" she gasped. "Robb let me see." One hand holding her daughter, she took the scroll from her husband's limp hands.

_Robb,_

_Our lord father, Eddard Stark has committed high treason against His Grace, King Joffrey Baratheon, in an attempt to steal the throne. He remains the Crown's prisoner until His Grace decides his fate. I am well, I am safe. You, your lady wife, and our lady mother must come to King's Landing and bend the knee to King Joffrey. Come at once. Save our father, save our House. Prove to the King that the Starks are not rebels and traitors, and beg leniency for our father. Make haste._

_Sansa Stark_

For a long moment, the southern girl could only stare at the scroll, wondering if she'd read it right, or if it was counterfeit. Because it couldn't be true. It simply couldn't. Her brother  _couldn't_  have arrested Robb's father for... _treason_. Lord Eddard couldn't have tried to usurp Joffrey. Why would he? His daughter was to be the  _queen_  one day. It made no sense for him to contend Joffrey's rule. None at all.

But she was staring down at the words that told her otherwise. In Sansa's handwriting.

Fury bubbled in her belly the longer she stared at the scroll, the more she thought of what her vile, stupid, reckless little brother had  _done_. Was this a show of power, to the new king? Was this revenge for Catelyn taking Tyrion?

"This is vile filth." She hissed, tossing the scroll to the floor.

"Sansa wrote this?" Robb asked, his voice a little calmer than his wife's. But he sounded...betrayed.

The maester nodded once. "It  _is_  your sister's hand, but the queen's words." He assured judiciously, his eyes straying to Sylvia's still form. The lady didn't react. "You and Lady Sylvia are summoned to King's Landing to swear fealty to the new king." Sylvia looked up at the maester. Summoned to the Capitol, when her good-father rotted in chains under allegations of treason?

"Joffrey puts my father in chains, and now he wants his arse kissed?" Robb's voice was harsh.

"This is a royal command, my lord." Maester Luwin explained sagely. "If you should refuse to obey—"  _it would be treason,_  Sylvia thought. Maester Luwin had taught her what it meant to be a rebel, what happened during war, and sieges. They were not lessons befitting a lady, but they were necessary. If she was to be Lady Stark, she had to be prepared for the worst.

If they refused, they'd be hunted down, northern lands burned, their men slaughtered like animals in the field for fighting for their lord. Their forces would be driven back, and they'd become trapped in their castle, until starvation took them, or Winterfell was sacked. Then, the King would deal out justice if they were still alive, and their heads would be dipped in tar, and put on spikes as a warning to other would-be mutineers.

_But my mother is the queen...my brother is the king. They wouldn't do that to me, wouldn't do that to the Starks._

"I won't refuse." Robb said. "His Grace summons me to King's Landing; I'll go to King's Landing." There was something queer in his voice, a determination Sylvia hadn't expected. She'd thought he'd be angry, frightened and confused as she was. But he was  _determined_. "But not alone." She looked up at him just in time to see him look Luwin in the eyes, those river blue pools, now cold as ice. "Call the banners."

Coldness swept through Sylvia, horror clawing up her throat. "No, wait Robb. Let's just think about this for a moment." She pleaded, raising a hand to grip his arm.

Robb met her eyes. All the joy was gone, and in its place was all the fierceness of a wolf. "There is nothing to think about, Sylvia. That boy-king put my father in chains. You  _know_  those accusations are false!" Mini stirred against her mother's shoulder.

"Calling the banners and marching on King's Landing will mean  _war_." She said, wondering if he truly knew what this meant. Robb did know, and he was afraid, perhaps just as afraid as his wife. But he couldn't show her that.

"Your brother's already started the war, him and your grandfather. Joffrey is not going to drag my father through the mud and ask me to lick his boots." It was a wolf snarling at her, and she couldn't help but drawback, gripped by a touch of fear. He paid no mind, and turned back to Luwin. "Call the banners." He ordered again.

Sylvia trembled. "Robb, please don't do this." she thought of the Targaryen babes, butchered in their sleep by her grandfather's orders. Their only crime had been bearing the Targaryen name, but that was enough to warrant their deaths. Sylvia knew her grandfather little, but she knew the stories about him. "There has to be another way." She could not think of one, but with time, perhaps they could.

"There isn't." It was Lord Robb's voice that spoke to her, and at that moment, Sylvia knew there was nothing she could say to make him listen. "You know that, somewhere, deep in your heart. You know that."

"But you don't  _know_  Joffrey." Her words hung in the air for a long moment, until she looked away from him and rushed from the hall.

* * *

_This will make things worse, this will ravish the land, his host will be a display of defiance, and Joffrey hates it when people move against him_. The thoughts swirled round and round in Sylvia's mind as she walked through the corridor leading towards the Great Keep. But when she was at the bottom of the stone steps, she found she couldn't move to climb them. Her feet felt like lead.

If she went back to their rooms, her husband would find her soon enough. Sylvia couldn't stand the thought to being near him now. Even the thoughts of him touching her gently, offering her his arms and giving soft words of comfort infuriated her. She'd throw something at him, beat her hands against him, and shove him away— all before allowing him to come near her.

The shock of what Robb had done still hadn't worn off, and Sylvia could hardly believe what she'd just seen, what she'd just learned. It seemed so impossible. Lord Eddard was put in chains after some  _ludicrous_  accusation of treason, and her husband would go south, leading a host to war, so he could free his father.

Sylvia understood her husband's decision— _truly_  she did. If it were Robert who'd been taken prisoner, she'd rally the might of the Storm Lands with her uncles and brothers to see him freed. She'd see castles pulled to the ground, farmlands salted, and ancient houses uprooted to have someone she loved returned to her. Honour and pride would be restored to her House, along with her father, by seeing his captors justly punished.

But Robert was dead, and Lord Stark's captors were her family.

Resentment bubbled in her gut to think of Joffrey, their father's crown settled amongst his golden hair. If he were here now, she'd snatch that crown off his head, and  _beat_  him with it, until the golden antlers left long bloody streaks over his face, and he cowered in defeat.

He'd always been a cruel one, but she never realized how truly  _stupid_  her brother was. Did he imagine that Robb would tremble and grovel at his feet when he put Lord Eddard in chains? Is that what he wanted—to shame her husband's House, and slide a knife between his sister's ribs? There couldn't be any truth to those accusations, she knew, and so Joffrey must have acted without thinking. He must have judged Lord Stark before the man had a chance to explain whatever it was that had so clearly offended Joffrey.

Her brother had always wanted to hurt her, even when they were apart for years, and became a stranger to her. Her little brother called her a whore, called her husband an impotent sod, and suggested that her husband was not their daughter's father. All under the Starks own roof, after drinking  _their_  wine, eating  _their_  food. Joffrey hated her, and now he was ruining everything, just as she'd feared.

Their father was turning in his grave, surely. That thought gave her a little spark of pleasure, knowing that their father would likely disown Joffrey for what he was doing now. If he were feeling generous.

Her mother, the Queen, was just as at fault, but Sylvia's heart twisted to think it. She didn't want to be  _this_  angry at her mother, it felt wrong. It felt like the sort of anger that wouldn't  _ever_  go away—the kind that festered on inside her, until all that was left was hatred.

The southern girl shook her head.  _No_ , she thought defiantly.  _Joffrey did this, he's king now and doubtless that crown has started to compress his stupid head. Mother would have stopped him if she could._

But still, the fury wasn't soothed, and her family was still ripping apart. Like her marriage with Lord Stark's heir meant nothing.

Once or twice in her life Sylvia had felt truly helpless, and this was fast approaching one of those times. She could do nothing to stop this conflict. Not when Robb wanted his father back. Not when battle hardened lords sought to defend their home's integrity. Not when her pleas for peace would fall on deaf ears.

Sylvia lost herself in thought and when she felt a cold breeze strike her in the face, she was surprised to find that she'd wandered outside, into the courtyard. A concerned frown creased her brows.

The southern girl felt dizzy, out of breath, and wanted to just get away from Robb, from Winterfell, from war, from her family— _everything_. If she were calmer, she might have been disgusted with herself for her cowardice, for her childishness, and go back to her husband with her head held high. Unbidden, another bite of shame came upon her. She was a princess; she should be  _stronger_  than this. But she wasn't, and that thought shamed her deeply.

The cold was creeping up her legs, chilling them even through her stockings, while another icy cold finger crept down her dress, freezing her to the bone. If only she'd gotten to don her cloak before the maester delivered his foul news. Alas, it was still folded up on a bench, and she was walking through the northern air, frozen, upset and alone.

A tiny, soft mewl was murmured against her neck, and it reminded her that she wasn't  _alone_.  _At least you're warm,_  she thought dimly as she pulled Mini's swaddling blankets up around her little ears.

How had their lives become so complicated, and so quickly, too? This morning, she'd woken with a sense of excitement, a sense of purpose and hope. Of course, peace in the kingdoms was shaky, but she'd never thought all out war to be an option. How had she not minded the signs? Was she ignorant by her own stupidity or by just not  _wanting_  to see the discontent growing between the Starks and the Crown? Or the Lannisters more like. Sylvia's belly twisted.

Catelyn took Tyrion. Jaime slaughtered Lord Stark's men and crippled him in retaliation. Her grandfather was putting the riverlands—Catelyn's girlhood home—to the sword and torch. And yet she thought it could go back to normal, she thought once Tyrion was away from Catelyn, it would be done and forgotten.

She'd thought her marriage to Lord Stark's heir might be enough to keep the peace, and still, it had not.

She'd make her bed in the Guest House, tonight. Her family had resided there when the Starks hosted them, and no one would think to look there. Sylvia had taken part in the preparations for the royal family's visit, and saw that their accommodations were comfortable, warm and clean. Mini would stay with her tonight. She needed her now more than her husband did, and if Robb wanted to show her kindness, he'd leave her alone.

The northern air made her shiver, and once more she wished for her cloak, but she didn't pause in her journey towards the Guest House. If she stopped, it would be another moment spent in the icy breeze. Yet when a serving girl came towards her, concern etching into her plain face, Sylvia's feet stopped.

"M'lady!" the girl gasped, dropping her basket of freshly washed sheets. Her hands came about her Lady's shoulders in a bold fashion that would have earned her a day in the stocks had they been in the south, and if Sylvia was feeling spiteful. "You'll catch your death without a cloak." Sylvia cast a look to the hands gripping her shoulders, and up to the woman holding them, not really seeing the woman before her.

"Build me a fire in the Guest House." She commanded, not able to contain her shiver. She was so cold, and yet Mini  _still_  slept on.

The maid blinked, her hands loosening their concerned grip. "B-but wouldn't m'lady rather be—"

" _Now._ " Sylvia said, a touch of desperation creeping into her voice. The maid nodded, appearing sheepish at her lady's harsh tone. "And bring me something to drink, as well."

The serving girl did not argue this time, bending her knees to scoop up her basket. "Wine or water, m'lady?" she asked softly.

Suddenly, there was a caw above them, and another hundred followed in reply. The gentle beats of a thousand flapping wings filled the air, and she saw the maid look to the sky, confusion pulling her brows together. Sylvia watched too, as what seemed to be every raven in the rookery flew out of sight, delivering their message of war to the lords of the north.  _Damn you, Luwin_ , she thought, tears burning her eyes. It appeared he hadn't even waited in obeying his lord's commands.

_There is no one else in Winterfell to support me, no one else who doesn't want war._  Never before had she felt more an outsider.

"Wine." She finally answered the maid, pulling her bleary eyes away from the sky. "Don't you dare tell Lord Robb where I am."

* * *

Mini was still sleeping when the serving girl returned with her drink, still asleep when she built the fire. Sylvia ached for her daughter to wake. If she were awake, she could melt away her mother's troubles for a few hours, just by smiling up at her. But she'd had an active day with her mother and father, and was likely to sleep the rest of the night.

_Let her sleep_ , Sylvia thought,  _let her have sweet dreams where nothing evil or ugly exists_.

The southerner lost herself in her thoughts, thinking over and over again on Eddard Stark and the treasons her mother and brother accused him of. It had to be false. Her father-in-law was good and loyal and honourable. He wouldn't try to usurp his dearest friend's son from his throne. He loved her father too greatly. With a mild touch of bitterness, she remembered how her father been happier to see Lord Eddard than her, long ago when she was still virginal Sylvia Baratheon.

Had it anyone else who'd taken Eddard, there would be no hesitation on Sylvia's part. She'd help the maester write the raven's scrolls herself.

But, as when Catelyn took Tyrion, she was torn. With Robb as her husband, the gods and the law expected her to side with him, but Sylvia didn't think it would be that easy. He was going to march south, to war against her  _flesh and blood_.

She wondered if her family had legitimate reason to suspect Lord Stark of treason. The blood and love she shared with the royal family compelled her to side with them. But she  _knew_  Lord Stark...he held honour above all else, and always sided with goodness and lawfulness. He wouldn't have tried to "steal" Joffrey's throne if he hadn't had a very, very good reason. Robb was right on that, at least. These accusations were likely filthy lies.

Suddenly, something soft was settled over her shoulders, making her jump. The serving girl blushed, stepping back and looking away sheepishly. "Forgive me, m'lady. I thought you'd be cold." Sylvia looked at her shoulder and saw that the maid, (Nera, she remembered), had wrapped her in a shawl. Sylvia's heart warmed at the girl's unexpected kindness.

"Thank you, Nera." She said softly. The girl left with a swift curtsey, and Sylvia was alone again.

As much as the notion repulsed her, Joffrey was king. Robert had died and now his first born son was king. That was how progression worked. Even though Joffrey would likely blunder his way through ruling, even if he offended his lords and ladies, even if he turned out to be the worst, most idiotic king that ever lived, he would be king.

Just as Robb would inherit Winterfell and the entire north upon his father's death, so did Joffrey inherit the Red Keep and the Seven Kingdoms with Robert's death.

Her head began to ache. If Joffrey was wrong, and Lord Stark was innocent, she  _should_  support her husband. And yet, she still felt like a traitor, at the idea of supporting Robb. Her two families were going to war with each other, no matter who was right and who was wrong.

She didn't want to choose.

There was no version of this, where Sylvia believed she could come out unscathed or happy. She was losing her family, one way, or the other. She knew where this could end, where it was likely to end with her grandfather commanding the western forces.

Tywin Lannister was strong and formidable, a seasoned commander and warrior. He was her grandfather, and yet he'd never been warm, or kind, or sweet. He'd frightened her as a girl. There was never a time that she could recall where he'd smiled, or laughed or spoke in a soft voice. But the most terrible thing about him, were that tales whispered through the Red Keep of what he'd done to put her father and mother on the throne.

The contrast was horribly blatant when she thought of Robb. Her husband was young and naive and green. He'd never fought a real battle, much less commanded men to fight and die for him. Robb was  _green_ , even though she'd never say so aloud. He was a splendid fighter, but this would be his first war. Gods be good, he'd only killed his first man when that wildling woman came to them!

Since her girlhood, she'd heard whispers throughout the Keep that Tywin had ordered the deaths of Elia and her children. One of her maids told her stories about them, and even said she slept in the bed that Princess Rhaeys had hidden under when the Lannister men stormed the castle. Sylvia had told her mother, and she never saw the maid again.

When Nera left her, Sylvia stood and walked to the bed. She watched over her slumbering baby, watching her little fingers twitch, listening to her soft breath. The fire Nera had made for her warmed the chamber nicely, so Mini slept on without a blanket to keep away the chill.

Sylvia ran a finger over one of the pillows that surrounded her daughter, (placed there so she wouldn't roll off) and lifted it. She pressed her nose to it, and breathed deeply, the musty smell of old air filling her lungs. She wondered if her mother's scent still lingered on at least one of the pillows in the Guest House, and for a moment, she was half tempted to search for it. But she did not know if breathing in her mother's scent would bring her the comfort she needed, or weigh down her heart with despair.

Already, Sylvia's heart twisted to think of her mother, to wonder what she would think when she learned the north was marching on the south.

Sylvia cast a look at the untouched pitcher of wine Nera had left on the table. Her father loved wine, but wine did not love her father. It made him sloppy; it would stain his fine silks and velvets. Wine dulled his eyes, and slurred his words in the oddest way. When she was very small, she'd thought it was funny, that her father was just making silly voices. But sometimes, it had made his words harsh, as well.

But she'd had a drink before. It made her feel warm...relaxed. And she wasn't her father.

She reached for her cup, and poured herself just a small amount of wine. Just a mouthful, really. She took the pitcher with her, setting it down on the little table beside her comfy chair. A grimace contorted her face when she drained the cup in one gulp, the burn racing across her tongue and down her throat.

_Calling the banners will just make Joffrey angry, and Joffrey likes to hurt people when he's angry_ , she thought to herself. It had always been his first instinct, ever since he was a little boy. When she angered him, he threw her toys against the wall or out the window just to make her hurt. He kicked her puppies and held up her kittens by their tails when she refused to indulge him.

She poured a little more wine into her cup, and downed that too.

Sylvia had always imagined that the start of wars were a lot  _bloodier_. As it turns out, there was much more talking, and still, she found herself terrified all the same.

Sylvia reached for the pitcher, watching as the red drink sloshed into her cup, much more than just a mouthful this time. She remembered the wine Robb gave her the day he told her Robert was dead. The wine had taken away all the pain, it made her sleep, let her calm down. She needed...

The wine was bitter, but it warmed her belly and drove away the cold. The more she drank, the warmer she felt, and the warmer she felt, the more her head swam. She felt as though her joints were made of string, as though her mind was dipped in the most  _wonderful_  honey. Everything starting to feel slow and peaceful and  _good_. She sat in her chair, watching the flames of the fire dance and blur together, her cup cradled to her chin.

Before long, she was reaching for the pitcher once again, watching dimly as the wine filled her cup.

 


	26. Like Rum on a Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letting go of all your problems for a few short moments has it's price. Sylvia might be more like her father than she thought

**Chapter 23: Like Rum on a Fire**

Sylvia didn't think she'd ever had  _so much_  wine before.

The southerner rolled her eyes at her prudishness, vexed at how utterly  _boring_  she'd become. Or, perhaps she'd always been dull and hadn't noticed? Sylvia shook her head at the thought.  _Before_ they wed, she and Robb had kissed like lovers in the empty godswood.  _Before_  they wed, Robb learned the feel and measure of her breasts, and she'd clawed at the bare expanse of his back when he knelt to kiss the soft mounds. Good and proper ladies didn't do such  _naughty_  things with their intended before getting the gods blessing. It had felt  _good_  to be anything  _but_  a good and proper lady when Robb's lips were at her neck.

She wasn't a prude, she decided. No. She only played by a different set of rules. At eight-and-ten, she'd yet to get good and  _properly_  drunk. Or at least that's what Theon called it.

One or two cups at feasts were all she allowed herself, and she'd enjoyed the happy feeling that came from that. But she'd seen Robb drunk, Theon drunk—even sad, solemn Jon Snow had stumbled about after a few too many cups. At feasts, she'd seen other women of an age with her drink cup after cup of wine, ale, mead—whatever was offered to them, they took without complaint. She'd see them laughing at the stupidest jokes, sitting in the laps of men who were not likely to court them.

Sylvia was not shy to admit that she'd scorned them in private, yet was secretly jealous of their freedom.

Drunkenness was not the mark of an honourable woman, or a princess. Or her handmaids either. When one of her maids, (Pansy, who'd been with her since her childhood in the Red Keep) got drunk during a feast, and stumbled drunk into bed with the kennel master's son, Sylvia was immediately removed her from her service. She couldn't have a dishonoured woman serving her, no matter how she wept, and begged, and insisted it would never happen again. Pansy was southbound by midday, and where she was now, Sylvia did not know. She hoped she was happy, hoped she did not hate her former mistress.

The wine burned over her throat once again. Somehow she doubted Pansy thought kindly of her. After Pansy was dismissed, Sylvia's other maids tread more carefully, wary of repeating Pansy's mistake.

Even as a woman wedded and bedded, she drank carefully—memories of the dishonor her father brought on his family with the drink, always just in the back of her mind. But this was  _good_ : this feeling of freedom. All her burdens, worries, pain and fear had all been drowned and washed away.

_I'm well overdue for this_ , she thought to herself, finally brushing away any lingering reservations she'd had. She took another gulp of wine, the taste no longer making her grimace.

Her lips felt tingly, and she couldn't stop herself from biting her bottom lip, marveling at the slightly dulled sensation of teeth sinking into flesh. She'd never felt such a feeling before, not even after two generous cups of wine.

By her fourth cup, she was thinking of songs she hadn't heard in so long. The north never had any bards, and the last time she'd heard a proper song was on her wedding day. Robb said he'd bring a bard to Winterfell for her...she'd have to ask him about that when she saw him next. After she threw something heavy at his head. Maybe a candleholder...or a chamber pot. She giggled at the thought.

"Thaaaa Dornishman's wife, was as fair as the sunnnn and her kiss was warmer than sp-sprinnngggg." She sang, trying her hardest not to slur the elegant lyrics. It had been a long time since she thought of this song, and once she'd remembered it, it seemed a very good idea to sing it. The more she sang, the more she enjoyed it, and less she thought of being quiet.

She thought her voice was quite pretty, in fact. Damn the bard. She'd sing for Winterfell.

"But the Dornishman's blade wasss made of black steel," she took a drink of wine, not flinching this time at the rotten taste or the burn. She actually enjoyed it. "And its kiss was a terr-terrible thing." she sang. "The Dornish man's wife would bathe as she sunged in a voice that was as sweet as a peach." Her mind hazy with the drink, she didn't even notice she'd muddled the lyrics.

A sound pierced through her singing, a soft sigh, and it took a long moment for Sylvia to remember the baby asleep on the bed behind her. She hunched her shoulders listening as intently as she could, afraid that when she turned, she'd see her little one awake and squirming. But when she looked, Mini had only rolled over, still sleeping peacefully.

She took a celebratory sip, and thought of other southern songs she hadn't thought of in years.

* * *

By the time night began to fall in the castle, Robb had been brooding by the hearth for hours, staring into the fire and feeling its heat. Bran and Rickon were likely asleep by now. How they fared after Bran's clash with Sylvia, he did not know, and he could not find it within himself to really consider it much. There was much else on his mind.

Once his bannermen arrived, he would greet them with food and drink in the Great Hall. Their banners would decorate the walls, and he'd sit with them down at the tables—just as his father would've, were he the one calling for these men to follow him into war. Then, as they licked their fingers clean of the meal he'd provide, they would talk about the march, about his plans to rescue his father and sisters from the Lannisters.

Robb leaned forward, the chair creaking softly, while his eyes remained set on the flames, his knuckles whitening as he clenched his hand into a fist. He tried not to feel afraid, but he felt more like a boy charging a foe with a wooden sword and a pony.

Father wouldn't last long as the Lannister's prisoner. They might see the wisdom in keeping Eddard alive, but that didn't mean he wouldn't suffer. One couldn't put much stock in a Lannister. His father never cared much for them, especially after Jaime Lannister shoved a sword through his king's back, while his father ordered the murder of innocent babes in their beds. Robb, admittedly, tried to avoid Sylvia's mother as much as possible, finding her calm, yet stern features a tad unsettling. The queen's voice was always so soft, so controlled, and he couldn't tell what she was thinking or what she might be planning. Surely there was something darker beneath her reserved exterior.

But he never would have thought the queen or her Lannister brothers could be so evil as to shove a little boy from a tower, and then turn around and spit further insult into their faces by tossing his father into their black cells, naming him traitor.

Stark and Lannister ought to be allies—his and Sylvia's marriage was meant to ensure that—to bury the past once and for all and bring forth a new age of peace. Sansa's marriage to Joffrey was an ill given kindness, unnecessary and insulting.

Robb's jaw tensed. He never enjoyed the idea of Sansa wedding his wife's little worm of a brother, and enjoyed it even less when the prince proved what a little shit he truly was. The arrogance with which he regarded Winterfell still grated on Robb's nerves. His trust in his father had been the only thing that kept him silent on the arrangement. Perhaps his betrothal to Sansa would keep the boy king from inflicting much pain on her father? Or, perhaps, the dead king's love of his Hand would give him kinder treatment?

Arya and Sansa were another matter entirely. As Joffrey's intended, as well as a lady of gentle birth, Sansa should be treated kindly. She was well enough to write out the queen's demands, and it would earn the Lannister's no support were they to harm a girl of three-and-ten, and one so innocent as Sansa. But in the hours after the ravens took flight, he realized that the scroll had no mention of his littlest sister, whom was no one's betrothed, and who hadn't curried any affection from the lions. Robb's eyes clenched shut to stop any tears from forming.

The Lord of Winterfell remembered that day on the Trident, when Arya had supposedly leased her wolf on the prince, and how Sansa's direwolf, Lady, had paid the blood price. Had Lady's life and Nymeria's disappearance not been enough for the prince, now crowned King? Could that be why Arya wasn't mentioned once in Sansa's message? Thoughts of his sister's pain filled cries, pleas for help, and the sounds of flesh being struck made him sick. If they had harmed one hair on either of his sisters' heads, he'd beat Joffrey's face in until it was a bloody mess, until his nose caved in, and there was nothing left but broken bones, blood and brains in his hands.

The ferocity of his thoughts frightened him, but what frightened him more was the honesty in them.

The young lord rubbed his eyes wearily, wishing for sleep. But sleep never came easy to him when Sylvia was gone from his bed. When he refused to march on the Eyrie and make his mother release Tyrion Lannister, his wife slept apart from him for three days. In those three days, he'd often found himself staring up into the darkness, arm slung over the cold spot beside him. Half of him howled to have his wife back beside him, while the other, more stubborn part, strived for sleep without her.

But rest was the farthest thing from his mind now, even as he wished for it. Anger still flickered in his heart to think of how she'd looked at him when he called the banners. How could she be so furious when he was trying to liberate his family? How could she be afraid when he had the entire north to protect her? How could she be horrified when this had been brewing for  _months_? But his anger didn't keep him from missing her arms around him.

In his heart, he knew his wife had reason to feel angry and oppose him. The Lannisters were Sylvia's family, and she loved them. As his mother had said, Sylvia's love made her blind to her family's flaws. To make the whole matter worse, he'd kept so much knowledge from her, and though his reasons were, in his mind, rational, it's didn't change the fact that Sylvia  _didn't_   _know_. She thought Bran had slipped and fell from the Broken Tower. She thought the man who'd come to slit his throat was a deranged peasant, and she thought his mother took the Imp in a mad fit.

Of course she was afraid. Of course she was hurt. In her mind, this call to war came from nowhere. He could forgive her for her ignorance, and her mistrust of his choices, but he would have to tell her the truth of her family's deeds, to confide in her the way he'd always wanted to.

But would she believe him? Would she support him? Robb was not so arrogant to think that their bond in marriage could leave the bond of blood hollowed and meaningless. The accusations he would bring against the Lannisters were revolting, and Sylvia wouldn't believe them easily, for the blood that flowed through her heart was both Baratheon and Lannister, a fact that had never troubled Robb before now.

He remembered that moment in the godswood, when she told him she believed he could keep Bran safe from harm. She had been his Sylvia—every name melted away, until only his wife, had remained. Sylvia and all she stood for, and loved and believed in. A flicker of doubt prodded the edge of his mind and Robb shook his head. Just as he was hers, she was his. Sylvia might disapprove of his actions, but she'd never turn against him. He could only hope she wouldn't hate him for years after this.

Suddenly Robb was at his feet, determination setting a fire in his belly, the ache to see his wife intensifying until he could not deny the urge to find her.

* * *

The first place he looked was her private solar, where she reviewed the books, wrote out letters, consulted with the steward, and took her appointments with the various heads of staff.

The place even smelled of her, the soft scent of her bath oils and the lavender tea she liked so fondly still lingered in the air. Yet she was not there. Robb sighed and looked around the room, frowning in dismay when his gaze settled on her desk once more. His wife was so very meticulous when it came to her books. She never finished her work without putting them back in their proper place, yet here they were, strewn about as though she'd only stepped away a few moments before.

He realized she hadn't returned to the solar since the afternoon, when she took a break from her work in favor of a turn in the godswood. Her little bit of respite had led to an entire afternoon with him and Mini. How far away that seemed now.

He checked in Bran's room, and Rickon's. Both boys were sleeping; both boys were alone. He rushed down to the sept, fear starting to creep into his mind. He hoped, perhaps, that his wife had gone to her gods for comfort. It would be cold for her, but the solace of the gods might be worth the chill. But upon finding the sept empty, Robb began to worry.

As he ran from the little sept, Nera watched from a shadowed nook in the corridor. Seeing the fear in her lord's movements, she knew that he must be looking for his wife. Like most other northerners, he kept faith in the Old Gods, and had no business in the sept. She could partly imagine what her lord must be feeling, to not know where a loved one was. She had oft felt such fear as a child, when she wandered away from her father, and found herself lost. But to feel such panic as a man grown, when you're meant to know everything, must be quite horrible.

Lady Sylvia had ordered her not to tell Lord Robb where she'd hidden away, but should Lord Robb find out that she knew where his wife and child were, and that she'd let him worry for nothing...the best outcome would be her being dismissed from the Stark household. Nera's heart ached at the thought. Winterfell was her home, she loved it here, and to leave it would kill her.

Nera sent a silent prayer to the gods, that Lady Sylvia would not dismiss her herself for disobedience.

* * *

Robb rushed back to their chambers, thinking—hoping, really—Sylvia had just slipped by him, and was currently settled in their bed, still seething, still hurt, but  _there_. Alas, when he flung open the door, it was as empty as it had been when he left it.

The young lord felt a rise of panic in his belly, so strong he fell back against the doorframe. His wife could be anywhere, and she'd hidden herself well. Where could she be? Where was his wife? Where was his child? Had Sylvia  _left_  him? At once, the image of her astride her horse, Mini bound to her chest, riding hard down the freezing road came to his mind. Had she left him to warn her family of what he planned?

No, he told himself firmly. She would  _never_  betray him like that. Never. Sylvia loved him, loved his family. They were  _her_  family too, and Sylvia would sooner kiss a tavern whore's feet than harm her family.

Anyway, she knew very well that if she ran back to her birth family so soon after he called his bannermen, she'd not only disgrace him and his, she'd cast doubt upon the strength of their marriage. She was shrewd, and did not take foolhardy risks without serious thought.

Perhaps he'd find Grey Wind in the godswood and tell him to smell her out. For a small instant, Robb wished he had his wolf's keen senses, so he could find her himself.

Soft footsteps broke through his racing thoughts, too light and somehow timid to be Sylvia's. It struck Robb as strange that he could identify his wife's footsteps, but the thought passed quickly when he looked up, and saw a maid advancing on him.

"Yes?" he was a startled by how gravelly his voice sounded, and cleared his throat.

Nera thought once more of her lady's orders, and very nearly lost her resolve. But when she saw the look in Lord Robb's she found she could not lie to him.

"M-m'ord, I know where Lady Sylvia sleeps."

* * *

Sylvia was happy. Well perhaps not happy, but...lighter. Robb and the coming war, the very fact that he had no care of the wretched insult he pissed on her family...well it didn't seem so horrible anymore. It felt as though all of it was happening in a far away land. She knew it was happening, but it couldn't touch her—she couldn't be bothered to think of the consequences.

The lady grunted, and shook herself a little, imaging the ill thoughts tumbling from her like water off a wet cat. She wanted nothing more than to enjoy the warmth the wine had provided, and gods knew she deserved it for all Robb and Catelyn had put her through. Once more, she downed the last gulp of wine, and let her arm fall limply on the rest, fingers clinging precariously to the lip of the cup.

Her spirits lifted once again, she waded through her dulled thoughts for more songs, and soon enough, she settled on one. With a grin on her lips, she began, low and soft.

"I loooved a maid as white as winter with moon glow in 'er 'air..." Why hadn't she thought of this one sooner? She and Myrcella had all but screamed the lyrics when the mood struck, and because they loved it so, it was quite often.

In her haze, she did not hear Mini snort awake, nor did she hear her soft grunts, growing louder with impatience and distress. Sylvia was too far away, lost in a daze of wine, one that would make her feel even worse than before she began.

* * *

Robb didn't know quite what to feel as he hurried down the steps of the Great Keep, shoving the wood doors open and stepping into the frozen night air. Certainly, he was angry at Sylvia for snatching their daughter and hiding away like this, letting him linger in what was probably well deserved torment. But there was also a great amount of relief pulsing through him. A fact which he was a bit ashamed of.

Relief that she hadn't fled the Keep. Relief that she had no intention of telling his secrets to his enemies. Even though he had determined that it was impossible for her to betray him, he could not help but be soothed by Nera's words.

Robb sighed miserably as he finally reached the Guest House, carefully pushing open the doors and setting up the stairs at once.

Sylvia had stayed so wasn't that enough? He was here to beg her forgiveness, wasn't that enough? They could try to find somewhere in the middle, some commonplace. He did not want this war to end with he and his wife living separate lives within the same castle. It alarmed him how close that seemed already, with the banners only just been called. Surely she'd understand, at least accept if he explained it calmly to her. He'd tell her everything, from Bran's fall to the Imp's kidnapping, and make her understand that rallying an army was necessary.

They could fix this, they would. Robb wouldn't imagine failure, not in this.

At the top of the long spiral steps, there was a long stretch of hallway, two rooms on either side, each as grand and spacious as the next. It was the second door on the left where he saw light peek through the edges of the door.  _Clever woman_ , he thought. That room faced away from the Great Keep, and so there was little chance of him seeing light in the windows.

Despite his best efforts to remain composed, he all but sprinted down the corridor, eager to see his wife and child. Yet as he drew closer, a sweet, familiar voice carried through the air, accompanied by the cries of a child. He thought his wife was just singing their little girl to sleep, as she had done many times before. He heard the slightly off-key tone of her voice. While Sylvia's voice rung lovely and pure, the voice he heard now sounded hoarse, and groggy, and it was not a lullaby he recognised. Confusion mounted for a second, before he realized she might have been signing through tears. Shame coursed through him.

But as he slowly pushed the door open, and the stench of wine hit in full on, he realized with slow horror what was truly happening.

"...a maid as reeeeed as autumn, with— _hic_ —s-sunset in her hairrrrr..." she sang,

"Sylvia?"

"Robb!" she greeted with a sloppy smile, straightening in her chair. Her eyes were glassy, her cheeks red, and the front of her gown hung open. By the shine of her forehead, he figured she was too warm. On her bust, he could see the dark stains of wine where she'd spilled her drink. It only took him half a second to realize the reason for her odd state.

_Never_  had he seen Sylvia so drunk, and as soon as he realized her state, his eyes darted over to the squalling child lying on the bed, arms raised for someone to take her up and comfort her. The young lord rushed towards the bed, and was beside his daughter before Sylvia could say another word. He assessed her, found her without damage, and picked her up, feeling her tiny, delicate little body curl into his.

Mini snorted and whimpered against her father's neck, and he kept her close. Her eyes were so innocent, so little. He wanted to keep her that way as long as he could. Some horrible, heavy feeling sank into Robb's gut, and it was not difficult to recognize the first emotion. Anger grew quick and hot in his gut, at whomever had provided her with the wine, and at his wife for being reckless enough to drink it all. He would question Nera later, should the desire arise.

Yet the second emotion was harder to name, for he'd never felt it before. It was shame. Shame for the woman he loved, for the woman he took to wife and who ruled at his side. Sylvia had always had the Baratheon look, but for the first time in all the years he had known her, Sylvia truly resembled her father in the worst way possible.

"Oi, where—oh, there you are." He heard her mumble, her chair creaking as she turned to see him. "You're here; I'm  _soooo_  happy you're here. Even though you  _woke_  the baby..." she admonished with a little smile. Robb felt sick at his stomach to hear her slurred words.

" _I_  didn't wake her, Sylvia." He hissed, watching her smile fall at his harsh tone. "What in the Seven Hells are you doing?  _Your shouting is what bloody woke her_!" Mini squealed against his neck, frightened by the noise.

"I wasn't shouting, I—I was  _singing_. I was singing that song about the Dornishman's wife. I like that one, b-but then I remembered that I have such love for that song...y-you know the one. 'Seasons of My Love'. Oh! Gods, how I love that one. M-Myrcella and me used to dance to it. Here, have a listen to the words Robb," suddenly, she gasped, straightening from her chair and looked very gleeful. She pointed the hand holding her cup at him, one finger sticking out at him. " _You're_  my maid red as autumn! I c-I could be your maid as black as...as night? That's not very pretty..." she trailed off, a little wrinkle of distaste on her nose.

"You're drunk." He stated, his voice as cold as ice.

"No, 'm not." She protested, not even sober enough to be duly offended by the accusation.

"Yes, you are," He argued frankly, "You can't even remember the lyrics to your favorite bloody song." It was only for Mini's sake that he was not shouting at the woman before him, though that was quickly becoming a difficult task with every clueless quip she made.  _Does she not care?_  The dark thought was shoved away quickly.  _She loves Mini more than life itself...she only...forgot she was there._

Even as he silently tried to excuse her actions, he still wanted to shout sense into her.

"There is no maid as black as night in 'Seasons of My Love', silly. S'not the lyrics, so ha!" She laughed triumphantly, as though she'd outwitted him. "And m'not drunk! How could I be drunk when I barely touched—" she burped, and she found it a little strange she didn't feel the littlest bit embarrassed. "I barely touched the pitcher."

"You didn't even hear Mini screaming!" He finally shouted, astounded at her careless behavior.

Sylvia frowned confusedly. "What?" she asked, a spark of realization igniting in her eyes. "W-I  _did_ , but she jus falls back t' sleep..."

"Does it  _sound_  like she's sleeping?" He continued angrily.

"What...she..." Mini was sleeping, what was he getting angry at her for? It wasn't like they'd never had a drink or two together in the privacy of their chambers while the baby was asleep. It was a long moment before she realized her baby was  _awake,_ wiggling against his chest. And she was  _crying_. "She's was  _sleeping_ , I..."

A spike of worry rose inside the drunken woman, fearing that the baby was hurt, and wracked her foggy mind for answers. How long had she been crying? Yes, she'd heard her, but it wasn't anything more than a whimper...

Horror was slowly creeping up inside Sylvia's belly, and she felt ill all of a sudden. Her eyes began to burn and she looked away from Robb's furious face, feeling the scorch of her tears streaming from her eyes. What kind of mother was she? Sylvia had always imagined herself a good mother, but all at once, those opinions shattered, leaving her in the painful mess she'd created.

"What if she'd fallen off the bed?" Robb continued in a rush. "What if the rushes had caught fire and the bedding burned? Or if the fire went out after you passed out, and Mini froze? Did you not think of  _any_  of that before you got drunk?" He heard her sniffle and then sob, and as the red haze started to clear, he saw how she'd seemed to shrink. Sylvia's shoulders were slouched, her long dark hair hiding her face from him. A hand rose up to her face, and he heard her sniffle.

Robb exhaled with a huff. She was drunk and now she was crying. What use was it to argue now? There would be no reaching her, not tonight. She'd likely not remember any of this.

The young lord shook his head and started for the door, his long, angry strides taking him past his wife in a flash.

Sylvia's heart stuttered. "N-no, wait, Robb—" she pleaded, her voice cracking with emotion, the chair creaking as she sat straighter. Her husband did not answer and brushed past her, holding their little girl tight to his chest. She felt her fingers brush the material of his jerkin, but they were too slow to cling to him.

Desperation overtook her, and suddenly she was standing and trying to rush after him. Sylvia didn't know why. Even in her drunken state, she knew trying to talk with him now would end badly. It would end with more tears, more hurt, more anger. But, somehow, she thought him leaving her now was more frightening than any insult he could ever hurl at her. Robb leaving now felt like a bitter end, a loss for them both, and a cold new chapter of their marriage, and that scared her more than anything.

He couldn't leave her. Not like this. She couldn't let him.

When she stood, her weak legs became tangled in her skirts. She stumbled and her forgotten cup flew from her hand and shattered somewhere on the floor. At the harsh noise, she struggled to regain balance, and tumbled to the floor, not even noticing the sound of her dress tearing from hem to hip. It was her hand that kept her from falling on her face, but if her nose was spared any damage, it was her wrist that suffered in turn. It throbbed painfully as it made contact with floor and with amazed horror she watched it contort at an odd angle.

As she slowly straightened and pressure eased off her wrist, she stared down at it, feeling it throb sharply, and slowly becoming aware of her disgusting state. Tears blurred her vision.

It hurt. It  _hurt_ , and she couldn't stop it. She couldn't  _do_   _anything_. She couldn't  _stop_   _anything_. All she could do was  _sit_  in her mess, with her bodice hanging open lewdly, her skirt torn, red faced and  _drunk_.  _Hurting_. What was she doing? Who was she turning into? She heard her father's bawdy laugh, and remembered his horn overflowing with ale, a fat kitchen whore cackling in his lap.  _Father was a drunk, will I be no different?_

She could feel a lump in her throat; hear the choking sound of her breath as she tried to hold in her anguish. But then, all at once, a loud cry tore from her throat, startling her. For a fleeting moment, she felt ashamed and wanted to stop bawling like Mini did when she was hungry, but the thought went as quickly as it came. Her world was spiraling into destruction; the people she loved were at odds with each other, and she had put herself above her child, something she'd vowed  _never_  to do. How many times had her father chosen wine over her? Sylvia cried harder.

The young woman's sobs carried throughout the Guest House. The broken sound made Robb pause just outside the room, and as he stood there, more aware than ever of his fussy daughter against his chest, an unwanted ache began to grow inside him. It was a feeling he did not wish to acknowledge, for Sylvia's actions deserved no pity or comfort. Yet it would not fade, no matter how much he tried to hold to his anger. His wife was hurting, she was crying. He hated to see her in pain, even now. He loved her, how could he not?

Time was lost to Sylvia as she sat curled on the cold stone floor. She could feel the rushes beneath her legs, could feel the ache in her thighs and in her hand. She felt dizzy, and she wanted to sleep, but how could she now? Maybe she could find Robb, make him forgive her, impossible though it seemed. She wanted her baby most of all. She needed Mini in her arms, needed to beg the tiny babe for forgiveness she did not deserve.

The young woman did not look up when she heard footsteps approaching. Instead, she covered her wet face with her hands, weeping into them, afraid of who she might see when she set her hands down. She hunched forward until her elbows set on her thighs, wanting to become as small as possible, to disappear.

It was only when fingers came to her wrists to gently pry her own hands away from her face, did she realize it was her husband who had returned, his arms free of their child. Later she would learn that he had left to deposit Mini on Elane, much to the maid's annoyance. Later, she would realize that she'd been crying alone for a while, and that Robb's brief time away from her had allowed his mind to calm. But in her haze, she had no real measure of time.

Her eyes blurred by tears and wine, she could not read her husband's face. Perhaps that was better.

"How could you do this, Syl?" Robb asked, not truly expecting her to answer. He only needed to voice the question, to get his own racing thoughts out of the tight confines of his head before he snapped.

His wife gasped in a shuddering breath, raising a hand to wipe her tears on the sleeve of her dress. The childish act twisted his gut.

"I-I'm so sorry, Robb. I'm sorry." She wept, her wet, red eyes flashing up to his. "Mini..." she sniffled. "I just wan-wanted everything to—" Sylvia broke off; looking away again as shame once more consumed her.

"Never pegged you for a drinker." He uttered sadly, thinking once more of Robert Baratheon, who had been drunk at their wedding. Before this, the drunkest he'd ever seen her, had been at his name day feast the year before. And he'd been drunker than her.

"Y-you," she sniffed. "You don't know Joffrey. Th-this won't end well for any of us." She choked out.

Robb would be lying if he said the ominous words didn't give him pause. Her family was rich,  _obscenely_  so; her family ruled over the entire Realm and had the blood right to support their claim to the throne. They held his father in a dungeon, held his sisters hostage, and could easily use them to force him to submit. He knew all this, but the only way to get his family back was to make that stupid boy king see what the Crown stood to face if they withheld their Stark captives any longer. The north was mighty, and her people were loyal. When the Lannisters saw an army at their gates, they'd  _have_  to release his father and sisters.

Sylvia sniffled again. "I'm afraid, Robb." Robb's jaw clenched at the admission.

_She's drunk_ , he thought. _All her feelings are emboldened by the wine_. What had his father said to his mother when she had been afraid?

"You must have courage." He said, hoping he sounded sure. "Be strong, for Mini and me. If our enemies sense the slightest fracture between us, they'll tear us apart."

"E-enemy? They're my  _family_ , Robb." she wept. " _My_  family. How can-how can you ask me t' stand and smile when you want to hurt  _them_?"

"I don't want to hurt anyone." He vowed. "I only want to see my father and sisters freed."  _I want the Lannister who pushed Bran out a window to lose their head. I want the Lannister who paid a man to kill him to lose their head,_ he thought darkly. Whether it was the queen, her king slaying brother, the dwarf, or even Joffrey himself, he wanted their head mounted at Winterfell's gates.  _And I want them to stop coming between me and my wife_.

Sylvia's sniffles slowed and once more she wiped her face on her sleeve. Quietly, Robb began to retie her dress, his clumsy fingers tying them just well enough to preserve her modesty. "Get up." He murmured as he gripped her beneath her underarms and tugged her to her unsteady feet.

She shook her head slowly, trying to get the room to stop spinning. "Joff— _ahem_ —Joffy won't sur-surrender." She hadn't called her brother 'Joffy' since they were children, and dismissed it at once as a drunken slip of the tongue.

"He will when he sees an army amassed at his gates." Robb countered, his arms trying to guide her forward. Sylvia frowned and dug her heels into the floor.

"'M his  _sister_. I know 'im better than you ever can."

Instead of answering, Robb nudged her forward once more, his arms holding her steady so she wouldn't stumble. The stairs were a challenge; each step took effort to ensure his wife didn't fall forward and bring them both tumbling to the bottom. Sylvia seemed to realize he did not intend for them to remain in the Guest House.

"Robb what about tha savants?" she asked, her voice in a low whisper as though a servant was within earshot.

"It's the middle of the night, Sylvia." He replied, growing impatient. His wife made a face, and grumbled something he couldn't understand.

Supporting most of her weight, Robb half dragged, half walked Sylvia back towards the Great Keep, keeping his head low, winding around big carts left in the yard, behind the well, and towards the Great Keep's doors. He tried his best to avoid being seen by night-time wanderers, knowing his wife would never live down the shame of being seen drunk by their people. They'd whisper about her, just as they once did of her dead father.

Though he'd never told her, wanting to spare her from any further shame, her reaction to her father's death was a popular topic in the days after the incident. Robb had let it be, thinking that if he spoke of it, he'd only fan the flames of gossip. But when he overheard a few washerwomen clucking that they'd heard their lady had refused to leave her room and had even forgone bathing in her madness, he'd had enough.

In the privacy of his borrowed solar, he informed the heads of staff that his wife had taken to grieving in the southern way, and pointedly emphasised that gossip about the bereaved was in poor taste. The gossip was silenced after that. But if Sylvia were seen like this, it would light a fire beneath her reputation, and he would not allow her to suffer through that.

"S'not so cold. It's always bloody freezing." she mumbled, pressing her fingers against her face. Her eyes widened and she pressed harder, squishing her damp cheek up to her eye. "I can't feel muh face." She exclaimed with alarm.

"That tends to happen when you drink a flagon of wine." He replied humourlessly. Honestly, he'd marveled at it as well the first time he got good and drunk.

Sylvia glared into the darkness, letting her husband guide her towards the Great Keep. She was starting to feel very angry, and it was only matched by her shame. He was acting like he was an innocent little lamb.

"On-only 'cause you wanna kill my fam'ly." She groused back. Robb pushed open the doors leading into the Keep. Unfortunately the guardsmen were not between shifts as he'd hoped, and so were witness to their drunken lady. He held his wife a little tighter, and walked past them with a nod, hoping they didn't notice the smell of wine on her breath, the tear in her skirt or her swollen wrist.

When they reached the steps leading up into the castle, he did not wish to wait for her to slowly ascend the steps, so without warning, he took her up in his arms. His wife yelped and dug her hands into the leather of his jerkin, clinging for dear life. After a moment, Sylvia finally began to relax, and Robb hoped she'd pass out before they reached their chambers. He narrowly missed an elbow to the eye when Sylvia wound her arm around his neck, linking her hands together and resting her head against him.

Halfway up the stone steps, his muscles began to ache, and his breath became heavier. His patience was already wearing thin when Sylvia decided to continue their discussion. "If you don' wanna hurt anyone, Robb, can you jus'  _not_  go to war?" He could smell the stench of wine on her breath more than before.

She said it like it was the easiest thing in the entire world. He did not answer, praying to any god that would listen that she would just pass out and let the matter rest. But the gods were likely laughing at him now, and she lifted her head to look at him.

"Can you jus' send all your banner men home? I don wan you fighting again' my family." she slurred.

Robb sighed as he climbed the last step. "Syl, I've got to get father and the girls back."

Sylvia was even more stubborn when she was drunk than she was sober. "Bu-bu', can't ya just ask—"

His wariness getting the best of him, Robb's already tenuous control on his temper slipped. "No Sylvia, I can't just  _ask_."

"Bu' if ya don' try—"

"What, Sylvia, do you think if I just ask your mother and brother  _nicely_ , they'll let my father and sisters come home unharmed?" He growled, stalking down the corridor so fast it made her head spin. His steps became quicker and he looked away from his wife, eager to get her to bed and then get some bloody time alone so he could actually  _think_. "Sylvia, I will not allow my father and sisters to come to harm, not from your family or anyone. And not for charges that even  _you_  denounce as false."

"'M your wife, and I say no, you can't go t'war with-with them."

Robb laughed, but it was hollow, devoid of mirth. "Yes, you're my wife. My wife, who took the Stark name when she wed me." He turned the corner and started towards their chamber door. "You stopped being one of  _them_  a long time ago, sweetheart. Yet you'd rather my family sit as hostages, rather than support me in freeing them." He didn't know where this came from and regretted that final statement the moment it passed his lips. That wasn't true. She wasn't a cruel woman. But perhaps, deep down, she would prefer his father and sisters to sit and smile while the boy-king dealt them insult after insult. It would be easier. The conflict less thunderous.

"How dare you!?" she cried, wiggling in his arms in a weak attempt to get away.

Finally they reached the door, and Robb kicked it open with his boot.

"I need you by my side, Syl." He told her, his voice softening the slightest bit. He paused, standing in the doorway, waiting for her answer.

His wife's glare didn't falter, but she stopped wiggling. "I  _love_  my fam'ly. I love  _your_  fam'ly." She told him carefully, trying to sound as serious as she could. "You ask-asking me t' choose is cruel."

It was not the answer he'd wanted, but it was expected. He sighed and set her down on her feet, one arm around her waist to keep her from falling.

"Y'know," she said suddenly, "none of this would've 'appened if C-Catelyn hadn't been so stupid! So reckless—!"

"That's enough, Sylvia." He snapped in frustration as he pulled her towards the bed. "Go to sleep." He commanded, holding her shoulders and pushing her to sit.

"Wha? You know s'true!" she cried. "She took my dwarf uncle n' now we all 'ave to suffer cause've her  _stupid_ ,  _moronic_ ,  _vile_  actions." With that, she fell back onto the bed, arms flung out comfortably. Robb tried to remind himself she was drunk, that the things she was grumbling about were not truly what she thought. But he felt his ears reddening, anger rising quickly to the surface as she complained about his mother. He bit his tongue, wanting nothing more than to tell her what her family did to prompt his mother to take the Imp.

"You're not in any position to be calling someone else's' actions stupid." He reminded her lowly. Even so, he knelt down and reached for her foot, quickly unlacing the knots and pulling it off her foot. He'd tied her boots for her when she was pregnant, before she began her lie-in. Her belly was too big for her to bend down and do it herself.

"But-but  _myyyy_ ," she sat up on her elbows to meet his eyes. She pointed to her chest. " _My_  stupidity didn't start a war." She reminded, sounding almost a little smug.

Robb clenched his jaw and quickly did away with the other boot before standing. "I won't argue with you when you're drunk, Syl." He grabbed her legs and swung them up onto the bed. "Go to sleep." He ordered once more.

Instead of arguing, Sylvia rolled over, her legs curling up close to her chest. Just when he thought she was finally starting to pass out, he heard a sleepy grumble, "Y'know m' righ..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so sorry for the delay. On my other account, I've been idle for a very long time as well...I've been busy with school and family (and freakin Tumblr is a black hole). I've had some serious writers block, but now I'm getting back into Sylvia's story. I hope you enjoy what will come next :D


	27. The Ashes In My Wake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of a drunken night tests the strength of a marriage made by those too young

**Chapter 24: The Ashes In My Wake**

_Oh but I_ __  
Need some time off from that emotion  
Time to pick my heart up off the floor

Sleeping At Last –  _Faith_

She woke up sometime in the night, tasting something sour on her tongue. She vaguely recalled reaching for the chamber pot and heaving into it before rolling over and falling back to sleep again. But darkness did not greet her this time. This time, she dreamed.

The light filled the sept, beautiful rays of pure light shining down through the windows and reflecting off the polished floor. She'd been here many times as a girl, but time had withered most of her memories to dim shadows of the sept's true brilliance.

In the light, she felt safe, and so she stayed in it, twirling a few times on the middle landing which led down to the low lying center of the sept. From her position on the steps, she could see everything—the great statues of the Seven standing tall in a circle, the candles flickering in the breeze, and in the dim light, she could spot the shine of the grates covering the crypts.

But suddenly, the air grew colder, and the shadows darker and the sept felt more like a tomb, like a great black pit ready to swallow her whole. She watched, transfixed, as one grate began to jerk and wiggle, large fingers threading through the squares and pushing the heavy metal upwards. The corpse inside crawled out of their tomb and into the shadows, their large figure outlined by candlelight. Sylvia felt herself tremble. Then, another body climbed up from the darkness, smaller this time. The bigger corpse reached down to offer a hand to the smaller creature.

Sylvia felt her knees go weak, and her belly twisted with horror when the two, joined hand in hand, began to descend the steps, creeping steadily towards the natural light. Their features became clearer with every step. The bigger one was tall, burly with bushy hair and the other was a tiny child, with no shoes on. She could tell by the sound of skin slapping against stone every time the little creature took a step. Every step taken brought more fear clawing up her throat. She was sure she'd never been so frightened, yet she could not look away.

Finally, with one foot sliding forward, the two stepped into the light and she could see their faces. Sylvia's heart raced in her chest, and she fell back in horror at the monsters before her. She was going mad, she was sure of it.

Her father stood there, his guts spilling out into his hand, dangling just off the floor and dripping with black blood. He did not look pained, but rather, he looked...content. She had never seen such a look on his face in life, but wherever they were now, he could somehow smile even as he held his shredded flesh in his hands. The child that stood next to him, a little boy, about six or seven with a mop of messy black hair, was a horrible, choking blue. The kind of blue every mother feared, because that blue meant your child had no air.

A strange, strangled sound escaped her, a scream that had become trapped.

Yet at once, the boy was beside her, a hand on her shoulder, and a sweet smile on his pale, cracked lips. Were he not such a horror, she might have felt comforted. Instead, she wanted to flinch away, to run and hide. But, deep in her heart, there was the queerest sense of wanting to protect him, of wanting the blue in his face to fade. Perhaps it was a womanly instinct, or maybe it was because he would not be as terrifying as a normally pigmented child.

 _"Father found me!"_  he exclaimed to her, childish mirth in his voice.

That voice echoed in her ears as she woke with a jump, panting and blinking away the nightmare. Her eyes darted about wildly, looking for any sign of the boy, or her dead father. But when her heart began to slow, relieved that she was alone, she became painfully aware of the pounding in her head, and fell back onto the pillows with a thump. The woman groaned as the room began to spin.

The sun on her face felt wretched, and she turned away with a groan. She burrowed her head deeper beneath the pillows, all too aware of the gritty, foul taste in her mouth. With a grimace, she remembered the wine she'd drunk...the singing...Robb finding her, and Mini crying. She wanted to cry again, she was so embarrassed and ashamed.

"What have I done?" she whispered miserably as she tugged Robb's pillow towards her and pulled it over her body. Her right wrist ached sharply at the movement, and she remembered falling on it. It was bruised now, purple clouds colouring her wrist and palm. Sylvia curled it close to her chest, cradling it gently, feeling the throbbing ease. If Robb were to come back, she didn't want to see him and she was half certain he didn't want to see her. If he did, it would not be a pleasant exchange.

The fact that Mini had seen her in a drunken mess weighted heavily on Sylvia's mind and heart. Mini was just a baby, and she'd likely never recall this event, but...what if there was a  _next_  time? Part of Sylvia was adamant that she'd never touch another cup of wine, but...what if a time came when she couldn't help herself? A time when she couldn't stop, like the night before? When she'd started drinking, she thought she'd had it under control, thought she'd known what she was playing with. But when the first two cups didn't calm her down, she'd downed a third in quick succession. Then a fourth, and then a fifth. The last thing she remembered was crying on the floor, dimly feeling Robb lace up her dress. Her lips had been moving, but she could not recall the words she'd spoken or Robb's reaction to them.

In her bed, the lady shifted a little and noted that she still wore her dress. She took that as assurance her husband kept her handmaids from their chambers.

Robb...Mini may never remember this, but she doubted Robb would  _ever_  forget. She hoped he could forgive her, but she wouldn't be very surprised if a little part of him resented her. If the roles were switched, she might never look at him the same. She'd wonder how she could trust him with their child after he'd hidden away, gotten drunk and ignored their baby's cries. She wasn't that sort of woman, and she certainly wasn't that sort of mother. It was  _one_  mistake.

What if a gossiping lowborn had seen her? Oh, Gods be good, what if they called her the Drunken Lady? Or Lady Robert? What would Catelyn think when she came back?

Nevertheless, she would still be a Lady of Winterfell, she'd still be Lady Stark, and if they wanted to remain in the Stark household, they'd have to hold their tongues. She would be as strong as her royal mother, who showed nothing but grace and pride when humiliated in public by her husband. She couldn't let this horrible mistake cripple her standing in Winterfell. No. This was her home, and if she had any hope of thriving, she'd have to be brave and face everyone sooner or later.

Even with that in mind, she did not move from her bed. The world still spun and her head still ached like there was a smith going at an anvil in her skull. She couldn't face her husband with grace if she were ill.

 _Perhaps the coming war will make them all forget about my blunder_ , she thought darkly.

Time passed slowly for her as she waited for the ache of wine to fade, thinking nothing, but feeling everything. It was as though all the emotion that the wine had kept away the night before had come back with a vengeance. Tears stung her eyes like acid, but she forced them back. She had no desire to cry, not now.

After a long time in her little pillow cave, she began to feel too warm and peeked her head out, half afraid of seeing someone lurking in the corner, watching her warily or with critical eyes. With a confused frown, she spied Grey Wind sleeping by the fire, his massive head settled in his mighty paws. What was he doing here? He had slept in the godswood often as of late. Had Robb sent him in here to keep an eye on her? The idea was absurd, but half of her knew it could be true.

Apart from the direwolf, the room was blessedly free of humans, and Sylvia found the courage to sit up a bit, pushing the ache in her body to the back of her mind.

She looked around a bit more, and found a cup beside the bed, and a note leaning against it. Deciding quickly to read the note later, she reached out for the cup, and sighed happily at finding it filled to the brim with cold water. When she finally set it down, more than two-thirds of its contents were gone and the foul, gritty taste in her mouth was gone.

"Ugh, if this is what happens, why does anyone drink?" she grumbled, lying back down.

Grey Wind woke at her voice, raspy though it was, and trotted over to her. She watched him come to her side, staring down at her with his yellow eyes, full of knowledge and an eerie sort of understanding. He lifted a mighty paw and climbed into the bed, his massive body settling over her legs, warming her, keeping her safe. Sylvia wondered if he knew she felt wretched, and tried to offer a bit of comfort. She liked that idea, and reached down to give him a few pats before scratching behind his ear.

"I made a fool of myself last night, Grey Wind. I just wanted to think of something else for a while. Do you think Robb will forgive me?" Grey Wind heaved a sigh in reply, pressing into her hand. "He has to. I'm his wife." She felt the direwolf shift beneath her hand, felt his head shake and settle down over his paws. "He's going to war against my family. I think he has to give me this one." She heard the wolf make a sound that could only be called a groan, as though in disagreement. "If I'll have to forgive him for this war his mother started, he'll have to forgive me for this."

For a long while, it was silent between them, but as each moment passed by, Sylvia's frustration at herself mounted. "I'm a damned fool, but I am not a coward." She mumbled to herself, sliding her legs out from under the wolf and rising on shaky legs.

The woman frowned curiously. Was that normal? To feel as unsteady as a baby deer after a night of heavy drinking? If it was, she was even more perplexed by people's love of wine and ale. But, she had to admit, before everything fell apart, she'd had greatly enjoyed the loose feeling that had pulsed through her, enjoyed feeling warm, and not caring for once. But any joy she'd found was greatly outshined by her shame.

Carefully, she padded towards the dressing screen, and once she was behind it, she started on the laces of her dress. The night before, she'd felt too warm and thought it a very clever idea to take her dress off. Thankfully, she'd given up half way through her ties and had sat with her corset and under dress exposed until Robb found her. She tossed it over the top of the screen, letting it hang while she momentarily inspected the rip in the skirt, the cold nipping up her legs and down her back. Sylvia sighed. Mending it would leave a noticeable seam, a scar that couldn't be hidden. She'd have to throw it away.

As she reached for a new gown—a plain woolen thing of pale blue—she realized she had no one to help her dress. Still slightly shaky, and too stubborn to call upon a maid, she slipped her arms into the sleeves, drawing it close to her body and tying it closed at her side. It still felt loose, even as she took up a metal belt and secured it around her waist.

With a sigh she sat before her vanity, eyes lingering on the contents laying on top, before slowly dragging her eyes up to look at herself in the mirror. She watched the sad face in the mirror contort into a grimace. Her hair was a rat's nest, half undone braids creating a tangled black mess. Her eyes were a little swollen, no doubt from the tears she'd cried the night before. The black circles beneath her eyes were testament to the poor sleep she'd gotten, and she looked away, ashamed.

Tentatively, she began tidying her hair—unweaving the braids and combing through the knots with her fingers until her black tresses hung lifelessly around her face. Looking into the mirror once again, she thought she looked a bit more herself; more like she'd had a restless night, and not like she'd passed out after drinking an appalling amount of wine. It was a marvel that she could become so undone after drinking, how she could become someone so unlike herself, and she hated how hints of  _that_  person lingered on in the morning.

After smoothing down her hair with a brush, Sylvia was momentarily at a loss of what to do with her hair. She'd never fashioned it into a style herself before, at least not an elaborate one suitable for a lady. The most she'd ever done was braid it back before bed. After a few moments of experimenting, she managed to secure two twists of hair at her temples, and thought she looked presentable enough, though not as elegant as she liked to be.

Deciding she'd put it off long enough, Sylvia stood and walked back to the bed, sitting down before taking up the note left for her. Eyeing the note for a moment, she picked up the cup and drained the rest of the water in one go and opened the folded parchment quickly.

One line of words greeted her, and as she read them, she did not know what to make of them.

_Come to my solar when you are able._

_-Robb_

Short and simple. Short and cutting. Cutting and deserved. Sylvia wanted to die, then. At least then she wouldn't have to face her husband, to see her own shame played out tenfold on his face. 

To dress, and make herself pretty ( _presentable_. She still felt _ugly_ , somehow) was one thing. But then to leave the room was something else entirely.  She'd gotten from the Guest House to the Great Keep somehow, but she couldn't remember if anyone had seen her. The emptiness of her chambers was a great comfort, and to leave it meant having to encounter accusing, judgemental eyes that didn't understand anything. Eyes that had not seen the letters she'd seen, nor hearts that felt what she did. Experience had taught her that even the lowest of the low devoured gossip and scandal as hungrily as they devoured bread. Looking back, how many times had she been the subject of such unflattering whispers? 

But the only thing worse than enduring foul gossip, would be to hide from it, especially so soon after finishing her period of grief. It would be worse, so much worse if she retreated now. The young lady took a deep breath, gave Grey Wind a parting scratch, and opened the door, walking from the chamber with her head held high, all the while imagining the softness of her bed and the darkness of the covers drawn over her face. 

* * *

As Sylvia slept off her drunken night, Robb had managed to doze off a few times in his chair by the fire. His solar was dark, but every few moments, he'd open his eyes and find it a little brighter, the black fading into dark blue, then into light blue, before finally settling on a soft grey. He'd left his daughter in care of the handmaid, Elane, and could not find it in himself to sleep next to his wife. Not that she'd even left him much room to sleep in his own bed if he'd wanted to.

The petty thought flittered through his mind and he silently scolded himself. Of course there were bigger issues to face, but the minor grievance gave him a small sense of normalcy, one he had not felt since Bran's fall. In the briefest moments of waking, it was almost as though she hadn't gotten _so_ drunk the night before.

When the sun began peaking over the moors, the young Lord made his way down to the Great Hall, sitting with Theon and eating their breakfast. Bran and Rickon would take their food in their rooms today, so Sylvia's absence was less significant. He had thought to visit Maester Luwin before he broke his fast, to ask him to leave a potion for the ache his wife was sure to feel when she woke, but he'd kept silent. The pain of Sylvia's hangover did not worry him much. He thought he should feel sorry _not_ to care, but Sylvia _should_ be responsible enough to-- 

Robb snatched a roll from the array of food the servants had laid out and sat back in his father's chair. He could feel Theon's gaze upon him, curious, wondering if his mischievous nature would relieve the tension. The young lord stared hard at the wall across from him, feeling a glare mar his face.

"You look about as joyful as your bastard brother this morning." Theon jested, lightly. But upon hearing no snarky reply or hearing a snort of amusement, Theon sobered. "Long night, I'm guessing?"

Robb sent him an irritated look. He really didn't want to get into a serious discussion about all his troubles this early in the morning. Maybe he should have just taken breakfast in his solar, or with the boys. "I didn't get to much sleep last night," he grumbled before taking another vicious bite of his roll to vent his frustration.

"Well, perhaps you should have had your lady wife sing you to sleep," Theon sighed, voice devoid of mirth as he sluggishly picked up a hard-boiled egg and cracked it on the table. "I heard she could out sing a tavern bard with a cup in her hand."

Robb turned to his friend, frustration and worry rising quickly in his belly. "What exactly did you hear?"

"I might have heard how Lady Stark marinated herself in wine last night."

Robb's mouth hardened into a stern line. "And who'd you hear that from?"

"One of the guards. Went on about how she smelled like she drank more than her father at her wedding." 

Robb wanted to find the guards they'd encountered the night before and throw them from the castle for speaking about his wife that way. Perhaps later he would. "Whoever said it shouldn't have so loose a tongue," He growled, fist clenching."He should not be talking about my lady wife in such a way, and neither should you. So please, Theon, I don't need to hear it." Robb didn't want to think of the foul rumours already sweeping the halls about his wife. A shame to one, was a shame to both. 

He missed his base-born brother sharply, then. Jon would lend an ear and offer sound advice. He half expected Theon to advise him to slap his lady wife for her mistake, but he knew Theon wasn't so foolish as to suggest that.

Theon asked, ignoring Robb's request as he began to peel off the shell. "Guards said they'd spotted you dragging your drunken wife up to bed in the middle of the night." He bit into the egg, brow raised in a challenging manner, as though waiting for his friend to deny the allegations.

Robb bristled. He hadn't been dragging her, had he? Yes, he'd had to pull her an awful lot since half the time her feet wouldn't move, but he hadn't intended to be rough. The oddest sense of shame filled him. Sylvia had been unruly and disgraceful. But had he been any better? The young lord breathed deep. 

"That's not—it wasn't-" Robb trailed off in a frustrated growl as he dropped his roll onto the table. He took a deep breath and ignored Theon's comments. "Sylvia wasn't pleased with my choice to call the banners," Robb said above a whisper. He glanced around for lingering servants and he saw no one of concern, no one who'd strain their ears for his secrets. The servants who'd brought them breakfast had scurried off, and all who remained were household guards, men he trusted. "Syl went to the Guest House to be away from me and..."  _got drunk off her arse, woke our child with her obnoxious singing, and ignored her wails for comfort._  "...Overindulged." He sighed as he glanced back at his friend.

Surprisingly, he found sincere concern in the ward's eyes, nothing resembling smugness or disgust. Robb relaxed a bit as he rubbed his eyes tiredly. "I don't know what I'm going to do with her when all the lords arrive." He confessed, at once wishing he could shove those pathetic words back in his mouth. He was a Lord, meant to be strong as his father, to not waver, to have control of his household.

"She can't let her object to your plans when your banner men arrive. If your men think you can't control your own wife, there's no way they'll trust you to command an army. You need to set her straight." Theon said seriously with a frown.

The muscle in Robb's jaw twitched as he clenched his teeth. He knew he had to talk with her, but the idea of speaking with her just made him angry. His father was in chains; his sisters were in the queen's claws. Yet his wife clearly opposed his call for an army, and then she'd hidden instead of facing him, drinking her emotions away while their infant daughter slept not four feet away.

Why should I need to worry about how she acts?" he questioned aloud.

"A lord's Lady is a reflection on him." Theon informed bluntly, before taking another bite of his egg.

Robb rolled his eyes. Of course. One  _more_  thing that required worry. The young lord let his head fall back with a thud, a weary sigh huffing through his lips a second after. "I already have enough to keep me up at night."

"Clearly," Theon smirked.

"It's not a humorous matter, Theon! My wife is acting as if I'm the one who started a war, when it's  _them_ ," he dare not say the name, not until he had his army rallied. "who have my father locked up in one of their Black Cells, labeled a traitor. You know the stories about those cells. Men actually die of thirst in there. And she—" he broke off, anger taking his words. His hand dropped onto the table with a loud thud. "She's my wife." He ended feebly.

"And you're her husband." Theon pointed out. After a bear of silence, he snorted disbelievingly "But, did you honestly expect her to stand with you, and support you? She could barely support herself last night, especially after drinking half a barrel of wine." He shook his head. "She'll just hand Winterfell over to her bloody prick of a brother as soon as we march off."

"Shut your mouth." He spat at his friend, a look of warning on his face. "She would never do that. She might be stubborn, and she might resent me, but she wouldn't ever betray me." His heart clinched as the doubt on the edge of his mind pulled at him. What was last night, if not a betrayal?

Theon looked at him oddly. "She's Cersei Lannister's daughter, Robb."  _Cersei's daughter and Robert's. Robert, who loved his lord father more than he loved his royal wife. Robert who died after a pig ripped his guts out, and made his daughter so distraught, she needed nightshade to sleep. Her love for Robert will not let her leave my father to rot_. "A wife is supposed to be loyal to her husband." Theon continued. "If she's this opposed to your cause before the war has begun, you mustn't put anything past her." Theon warned. "Blood always tells." It was that that made Robb's sharp eyes snap to his friend's.

"She's a Baratheon, born with the same blood as her father's running through her heart." Robb let the word linger in the air for a long, tense moment. " _Never_  bring my wife's allegiance into question again. I won't be taking lessons in loyalty from a Greyjoy." He kept his voice low and steady, refusing to acknowledge the spark of hurt in his friend's eyes.

But at once, the Greyjoy's features settled into a sour look, the expression of a man angry to have been reprimanded by one he called friend. He had much more to say, and many more harsh truths he could bring up, but Theon's pride was deeply cut, and so he stood from the table, causing the chair to tumble back, and stalked away.

All Robb's righteous anger deflated as soon as his friend was out of sight. His shoulders slumped as he sat heavily back into his seat and brought a hand to rub his aching head. It was a low blow to bring up Balon Greyjoy's ill attempt at rebellion. He knew he should not feel terribly for reminding Theon of his place, but it was done out of spite, a petty barb, spat out because he could not say such hurtful things to his wife. Yet Theon had crossed the line, in speaking of his lady in such a way.

Robb left the table, feeling wearier than he had been when he sat down.

* * *

It was near midday, yet surprisingly, Sylvia had yet to reveal herself. But Robb knew his wife, and suspected that she'd soon bite down her embarrassment and face him. It was only a matter of time. So Robb sat in his solar, reviewing his father's books, detailing the number of men he'd have to fight with. When his head began to ache, he set one book down and took up another, this time reviewing their stores of meat, making sure he'd have enough to host his bannermen.

Of course, in overseeing the household books, reading his wife's delicate handwriting, his mind wandered once more to Sylvia. Theon's words at breakfast still lingered in his mind, and now that his temper had cooled some, he found himself wondering if Theon spoke what others thought.

Because of her blood, would his people think Sylvia disloyal? Would they look at her and see the enemy? If other northerners didn't think she could be trusted, how would she possibly run Winterfell, much less the North while he was gone? How could he trust his own people not to rise up against her? He ought to trust his people, but Northerners might not trust a young southern woman, especially the sister of the king they rode against. Northerners did not trust outsiders so easily, and Sylvia could very easily become an outsider again, despite her long years living in the North and the northern child she birthed.

But it wasn't like he could take her to war with him. No, that would be absurd. A war camp was no place for a gentle woman like his wife. But she would have to run Winterfell  _and_  the north by herself when he marched off, and take care of his brothers and their daughter.

The recent events involving his wife made him wonder, suddenly, if leaving her was wise. Maester Luwin would remain at Winterfell as well, to offer her guidance and council her. But would he be enough to stem whatever harmful impulses had driven her to drink? Was that a one-time mistake?

"My lord," the voice of his guard slashed through his thoughts. "Lady Sylvia requests to see you." He continued. Robb's back straightened in his chair, hands tightening around his quill as he called out for her to enter.

He was still scribbling down notes into a store book when his wife closed the door behind her. The awkward tension mounted as he continued writing, not looking up or acknowledging once she was there. Sylvia's hands clenched nervously around each other as she waited for her husband to look at her. Suddenly, she began to worry if she looked presentable enough. Did her hair still look remnant of a rats nest? Were her clothes wrinkled? Did her breath stink of wine? Subtlety, she pulled the sleeve of her dress further down, hoping the bruises on her wrist were hidden. She wanted no part of last night to shine through her. She wanted it all to be forgotten.

Finally, when Robb was through with his note, he set down the quill and looked up at her, regarding her a moment with unreadable eyes. Sylvia twisted her wedding ring around her finger.

"Where's Mini?" she asked, her voice low and gravelly. She delicately cleared her throat.

"With your maid." He answered, leaning back into his father's chair.

Sylvia hesitated. "Is she well?" she asked tentatively, half afraid to hear the answer. If Mini were hurt because of her, she'd never forgive herself.

"She is." Robb replied. For a moment it was quiet, the husband and wife regarding each other over the desk. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

Sylvia was quiet for a moment, unsure of what to say. She certainly hadn't expected such a stiff pleasantry when she first saw him after last night. At last, she answered, honestly, though hoping a bit of humor would cut through the awkward air. "Like death." Her mind flashed to the horrible nightmare she'd had, to her father with his guts spilling into his hands, to the boy whose face was a terrible shade of blue. What in the seven hells had  _that_  been?

A hollow smile quirked her husband's lips. "You sound like yourself again, at least." There was a little barb in there, and Sylvia didn't know if it would be better to not have heard it, because then, at least, that one statement wouldn't be filled with hidden meaning.

An uncomfortable silence settled between them. It seemed endless, and she was tempted to yell at Robb just to end it, to scream at him for his deeds, his deceit, his treason, for this  _was_  treason: him calling the banners to contest the king's ruling. To intimidate the king into submission.

Well, Sylvia didn't know the law to a letter, but she knew somewhere it must be written that Robb's plans were treasonous. And traitors were hanged, beheaded, drawn and quartered...all number of brutalities were done to traitors, and it terrified her that her husband would have that cursed title on his head. She didn't know what she'd do if he died, and she never wanted to find out.

But he was doing it for reasons that  _made sense_  to her. The accusations against Ned Stark were false. Of that she was certain, for there was not a bone in Lord Stark's body that did not love Robert Baratheon, and so no part of Ned Stark would do harm to Robert's legacy. For whatever reason Joffrey arrested her good-father, Robb had the right to want him freed. It was his duty, even.

She tried to see it that way. The entire journey to his solar, she'd tried. But it always came back to the fact that he was raising an army, hungry for blood and justice, against her family. Her mother, her little sister, sweet Tommen with his rabbits who love sweets. Uncle Tyrion, who was always kind to her.

And Stannis and Renly...what of them? There was no news of Stannis since Jon Arryn's death. She'd heard somewhere that he'd retreated to Dragonstone, irked at not being chosen as the next Hand. The last letter she received from Renly was dated before the king's hunt ended her father's life. Would Renly move to help her good-father, or would he stand with Joffrey? Renly loved her more than Joffrey, but would that be enough to earn his support in this endeavor?

Even if Robb hadn't called the banners, the country was in confusion. Her grandfather slashed and burned through the riverlands. Her uncle Imp was off in the wild, making his way home. Her  _wretched_ , kingslaying uncle had assaulted Ned Stark, and butchered his guards on the steps of a brothel. In her heart, Sylvia knew her husband was not to blame for this coming war. He wasn't even the first man to call his banners.

Her family was tearing itself apart, one side determined to destroy the other in a rain of blood, and she was caught in the center and didn't know what do. She felt helpless.

She was ashamed for not being able to support Robb fully, and she was feeling angry at him for the offense of trying to rescue his father

"I'm sorry." She murmured, her voice small. "I'm sorry, Robb. For all of it."

"You should be." He replied, his voice cold as ice, his eyes flashing up to meet hers. He paused as he stood from his chair. "Mini was screaming her lungs out, reaching out for  _you._ Wanting _you_." Sylvia's heart ached and her toes clenched in her boots. "I could have taken care of her if you hadn't hidden away like a fitting child." His words stung.

"I didn't mean to," she pleaded weakly, hoping to make him understand. "I ju-just wanted to relax for a while.  _Forget_." Her blue eyes pleaded with his to understand, but they didn't soften. "I  _love_ her; I'd never do anything to hurt her."

"I thought so too." His voice was hard, cold as the steel of a blade and just as sharp.

Nevertheless, the wound those simple words inflicted ignited a burst of anger in her heart, defences rising quickly at his implication. "She's my daughter.  _Our_  daughter. You don't really think I'd ever intentionally hurt her, do you?" She asked, eyes wide with question.

"She could have been hurt last night, Sylvia." He said after a long moment of thought. The southern woman clenched her eyes shut as shame once more washed over her, turning her head away so he couldn't look at her face. "That must  _never_  happen again." 

"I was angry. _Afraid_." she defended, wanting to sound angry, but her voice was soft and meek as a kitten.

"And that makes it all right!?" Robb cried. His arms were firmly set at his side, a fact which somehow relieved her. 

"No." She gulped, a hand pressed to her mouth. "No. Of course not. Gods, Robb, I'm so sorry."  Mini, her sweet little Mini. Minisa was fragile, she had almost come early, before it was time, but she was strong enough to stay inside her mother until it was time. Sylvia thought of her soft round, cheeks, her curls, her soft eyes, she hated being bundled up...

"It could have been much worse than what I walked into last night." Robb's voice was softer, still stern, but there was raw honestly there, too. 

"I know." she wept. "I know. I swear, to every god men pray to. It will never happen again. I'd..." He did not look at her. "I'd even pray that morbid goat god the savages of Qohor believe in." Her voice was weak, but Robb sighed and looked her way. "I-I was a fool, I know that. A shameful, drunken, pitiful fool and I hate myself for it. I will water the earth with every barrel of wine in Winterfell before touching it again."

"How can I trust that?" he asked suddenly, leaning forward so his hand rested on his desk, his eyes boring into hers.

"Because I'm your wife." It was the first thing that came to mind. Who could he trust, if not her?

"My wife, who got so drunk when I called my  _bannermen_  that I needed to half drag you back to our chambers."

Sylvia's cheeks burned, and she felt a sting behind her eyes again. Her teeth bit into her lip, angry and hurt and ashamed. "I thought we were finally getting past all this horrible business with my family and your family." She said. "Then Joffrey ruined it, and-and..."

"We were never past it." He murmured softly. "Tell me Lord Tywin would have let my mother get away with kidnapping his son. Tell me my father could forgive your uncle for butchering his men, and sending a spear through his leg."

"It never seemed like war was a true possibility. Then you called for your men to gather their forces."

"Because your brother threw my father into a dungeon." He reminded her coldly, his brows narrowing. She wondered if he saw her brother's actions in her. If he saw Joffrey. 

"Yes." She admitted softly, wishing, for what must have been the thousandth time, that Joffrey was not her brother. "My brother. My stupid, pigheaded, wretched little brother. But still my brother. And next to him, stands my mother. And next to her, my sister, and youngest brother. Can you not see why I might oppose this?" she asked her voice gentle and pleading. "Why it might be difficult for me to support you?"

Robb's glare softened some. "I understand." He finally admitted, and Sylvia felt a weight lift from her shoulders. She took the soft confession as an opportunity to close the gap between them, to step around the desk so she stood beside him. "But I will not let my father rot, nor will I let my sisters remain hostages. I will not abide it." He shook his head. 

"Believe me, when I say I want your father and sisters back, at least half as much as you." His eyes stared into hers, and she stifled the urge to look away from the penetrating gaze. "But I beg you; tread with caution, especially when toiling with Tywin Lannister." Her grandfather had only grown wiser in his old age, if rumours could be believed. Wiser, and harsher.

Robb regarded her for a moment, considering her words. "Tywin Lannister is not the most powerful man in the kingdoms. Joffrey is." She nodded, unsure of where he was going. "No king wants to face open rebellion, and if your brother sees that a single man's arrest can rally an entire countryside, as a king, he must do what is necessary to prevent war. He wouldn't allow his grandfather to insight further discord in battle."

Sylvia thought of this, and then shook her head. "I am that boy's sister, and I hardly know his intent half the time. And my grandfather," a hollow laugh escaped her then. Grandfather was a gentle word, meant for soft, kind men who had love in their eyes.  _Her_  grandfather had frightened her. "He was Hand of the King for twenty years, and after Mad Aerys, I doubt he will let another inept monster have much power over him. He is cruel to his own son, Robb. What makes you think he'll be any kinder to the family of the woman who wounded his pride?"

Robb considered the distressing possibility for a moment. The notion of facing such a brutal man, quite honestly, terrified him. Tywin Lannister was known for his wealth, and his (very effective) brutality in battle. The Old Lion's gold could pay for weapons of better craft than what his northern smiths could forge. Gold would pay for rations, tents, armor, clothes. Doubt prickled inside him, doubt he could not afford to show.

"I cannot say what is for certain." He admitted after a beat. "But," he paused, taking in his wife's face. Her beautiful blue eyes were soft, and filled with understanding. When next he spoke, vulnerability leaked through his tone, and into his words. "Syl, I can't just... _sit_  here and do nothing while Joffrey holds my father prisoner, and does gods know what to my sisters."

"I know you can't." She murmured back. Her hand dared to move to his, still resting on the desk, and covered it with her own. "But this is  _war_. Men will die. You—" tears burned her eyes again. " _You_ could..." she dare not word the thought any further. Her fingers tightened around his, the ache in her wrist flaring up again.

Robb's hand flipped over so his fingers could curl around her hand, and Sylvia swore she felt it tremble. Her husband's wide blue eyes stared into hers, so open and honest her heart ached sweetly. How long had it been since he'd looked at her like this? Too long.

"I can't stand to see my father locked up, no more than I can bear to see you like this.  _Us_ , like this. The weeks ahead will be hard, on both of us. Syl," he moved closer to her. "I  _need_  you by my side."

 _I can't stand beside him and smile as he plans to war with my family, like some doll he wants me to be_ , her mind whispered.  _But I can't stand by my family and smile while they plan to war with my husband,_ her heart reminded her. She stood in the middle of a field, her mother and siblings on one side, her husband and child on another. How could she choose, and still find sleep at night? In her heart, she already knew the answer. Wherever Mini was, she would follow.

"You're asking me to openly betray my family." She heard herself murmur, her voice strangely disillusioned.

He shook his head. "I  _can't_  do this without you. There's no right way to go about this," he laughed hollowly. "But how can I possibly be sure of anything, when the person who matters most to me can't bring herself to support me, even a little?" he paused. "I don't  _want_  you to betray your family, Syl. That's just it. I'd never want to hurt any of them. I just want my father and sisters back, so I can live out my days with you, peacefully and happily." She wanted that too, but they had very different ideas on how to achieve those goals. "I don't know if I can lead an army," he admitted softly, as though ashamed to admit it. "But how else can I get them back? How do I even stand a chance if my own wife can't even stand behind me?"

Sylvia bit her lip, thinking of his words. If Robb had her support, perhaps her family would be more amenable to negotiations? If he had her support, would grandfather stay his attacks? If he had her support, would he listen to her council, and bring a quick end to this folly?

"You must trust me, then." She replied. Unwittingly, she stepped closer to him, their hands still locked between them. Silently, she prayed that the stink of wine was gone. "As I've always trusted you. I know don't deserve it, not after last night." She looked down at their hands, her thumb running over his skin. "But the south was my home. I was born there. I know how it works."

Suddenly, Robb crushed her to his chest, his arms tight around her, his nose in her neck, his entire body pressed against hers. For a long, blissful moment, she let her husband hold her, holding him in turn. The simple comfort of being in his arms, pressed tightly and safely against him, was something she'd had no hope of when she first entered his solar. Knowing this could have gone so much worse, her nails dug into his back as she pulled him closer.

What would she do when he left Winterfell for war? Her face contorted into a grimace and she buried her face into his hair. What if he never returned?

Suddenly, her mouth was on Robb's, her fingers holding to the sides of his face in case he should jump away _. I'm sorry, I miss you, please forgive me_. For a moment, she could forget about her family, and how her love would raise a mighty host against them. And suddenly, all she could think was that her  _husband_  was going to war. He was running  _towards_  the danger, towards the blood and swords and carnage, and she could not stand to fight him a second longer. Fear churned in her belly as she kissed him, waiting for his response. Desperation quickly lit in her heart, and she knotted her fingers in his hair, tugging the way she knew he liked, pressing her body closer to him.

 _Please love me again_. _Want me again. Don't leave me alone with myself, to wonder and fear and think over and over again how you regret marrying me._

At last his lips pressed back against hers, and she made a little sound of relief as his arms wound around her body.

Her feet left the floor and suddenly her bottom was pressed hard against his desk, the sudden pain of it making her gasp, giving Robb the chance to slip his tongue into her mouth. The sensation made her belly clench pleasurably.

When she pulled away to pant into his ear, he moved his lips over her jaw, and down her neck, his teeth nipping and marking their journey until they met the barrier of her gown.

"I will write my uncles, Stannis and Renly for support in freeing Lord Eddard." She gasped as he began sucking the soft skin at her pulse, feeling her heart beat wildly beneath his mouth. He must not have heard, because in the next moment, his hands gripped her hips and lifted her onto his desk, stepping between her legs at once.

There was need in his kisses, one that matched hers. A need to feel something more than worry and hurt and regret. A need for something happy to come from their time together. A need to forget.

Their families were at odds, war brimming on the horizon. But they could at least have this.


End file.
